The Hope of Knowing
by trufflemores
Summary: "I would give gladly all the hundreds of years that I have to live, to be a human being only for one day, and to have the hope of knowing the happiness of that glorious world above the stars." - The Little Mermaid, Hans Christian Andersen. The Little Mermaid/Flash AU. Barry's a Siren; Iris is human, and royal. Their worlds are about to collide.
1. Chapter 1

The shorelander wanders down the grey beach.

Thunder rumbles quietly offshore, but the bare-footed shorelander does not retreat. With idle fascination, she bows to pick up a small cerulean stone carnivorously sculpted by the rise and fall of ocean waves, holding it aloft and tilting it to catch the clouded sun's hidden face. An autumnal sea-breeze encourages her to draw her white shawl closer to her chest, but she lingers with the stone, mesmerized, and utterly unaware of her audience.

At least, that is what the Siren hopes, holding onto a sea stack with a single clawed hand as he watches the shorelander examine her find. There are rhythms to the ocean that all Sirens know how to read – where a thrashing may be had, where a warm drift might carry a Siren for hours – but few use them for such mundane purposes. It is undignified for Sirens to interact with shorelanders except under the most exceptional circumstances, and salting the beach with pretty stones hardly qualifies. Still, there is no one else to correct him – for at any one time, there is but one Siren.

Leaning forward, the Siren errs and scrapes his claws against the stack. The screech is metallic. Alarmed, the Siren releases his hold on the rock, sinking beneath the surface, heart pounding. He cannot see the shorelander from here, could not guess what speculation covers the gaffe in her mind, but he stays below the waves until the patter of rain is distinct above him. Resurfacing, he scans the beach for any sign of her, but the stones are alone.

Disappointment fills him. He knows better – shorelanders do not like the old storms he is so enamored with – but he still searches for her until the rain becomes an occluding haze. Sinking under the waves again, he searches the shallows for cerulean stones. He finds a few and transfers them from gravelly bed to the small deerskin pouch slung across his shoulder.

The pouch itself is a gift from a drunken sailor who thought he was a man-a-tee. One day, the Siren vows to meet this Manatee, and perhaps acquire an even larger pouch from him. He can't help but wonder what collection the Manatee has assembled. Surely, it must be substantial, for stories of it to proceed its presence so far.

As the waves churn to a pummeling froth, the Siren retreats to deeper water, blue-grey tail paddling idly after him.

Unlike the Merpeople of the equatorial regions or the Selkies of the frigid poles, the Siren passes unrestricted across the vast oceans. Time is on his side – for Sirens can live centuries, millennia, under the kindest circumstances. Some are wiser than others and stay out of sight and out of harm's way; others make deals with creatures best not dealt with. A few have even attempted to join the Merfolk or the Selkies, but the history between them is sharp and unforgiving, and none have succeeded.

The Siren glides across the roof of the ocean for a time before plunging down, carving a clean path through the water to the cracked ocean base. It is not deep water, but rather the shallow shelf perched between the shorelanders and the distant seas. In many ways, it is an intermediate space between life and death. There is not much, Out There – nothing a lone Siren dares engage.

With learned confidence, the Siren squeezes through a fissure into the broad, bowl-like cavern beyond it. It is only thrice the Siren's length, broad enough he can turn fully but shorter than he is. It doesn't bother the Siren – he settles against the stone wall comfortably, surrounded by the brilliant blue stones he seeks so assiduously.

Smiling in the dark, the Siren reaches into his pouch and shakes loose his newest finds, pressing them into the smallest of gaps remaining in the walls. Someday too-soon, he won't have space for any more, and his smile fades at the thought. He could find a new cave, but he has cultivated this nook for nearly two decades – it was the very first place he called home under the waves. It has protected him from the passing dignitaries – sharks and whales and all manner of predator between – and offers a certain kinship with his predecessor that he cannot avoid.

The Siren Who Came Before Him never told him his name – not that he needed to, nor even was encouraged to. In the long line of Sirens, names were rarely exchanged. It was too personal. His predecessor selected him mere days before his passing, succumbing to poison from an errant urchin. To learn his name would foster heartbreak.

With only the barest of teachings before him, much of what he has learned about Sirens has been self-taught.

For example: Merpeople and Selkies do not like Sirens. His tail still bears the scrapes from those encounters, marked by two civilizations as an outsider. The Siren Who Came Before Him never warned him, and naively, he hoped that the reigning authorities under the sea might provide illumination for his inquiries. Instead, the guardians captured him, gagged him, and told him in no unclear terms that if he returned he would be killed.

Over nearly twenty years, he has learned bits and pieces of the story behind the animosity: Sirens, being a species with but a singular member, cannot have children. To keep their species alive – to keep their _song_ alive – they must take from others. Merpeople live nearly as long as Sirens, and though he has never placed an exact number on the toll, the Siren has learned that even the most ancient affronts are remembered in living memory. Merchildren, like shorelanders, are curious: and they, like every living creature, love the Siren's songs. Selkids, while rigorously protected, are equally susceptible, and make memorable Sirens.

The Siren flicks his tail up and down absentmindedly. It is a flat, almost paddle-like appendage, broader than a Selkie's two-prongs and bulkier still than the tropical strands of the Merpeople. Its dull color allows it to disappear in the water, and his torso retains a gleied appearance, making him doubly difficult to find.

Amid this selected obscurity, arrestingly bright blue-green eyes stand out. The shiny black claws at the ends of each hand are equally hard to miss, and a flash of white teeth terminates in tipped points where human canines taper gently. Were it not for the tail, he could still pass for a shorelander – until he spoke.

Exhaling, the Siren closes his eyes for a moment, floating just above the stone at his back. It is immeasurably peaceful down here, far beneath the roil and toil of waves, the shouts and jubilee of humans. Some might call it the perfect life – complete master of his fate, unrestrained, unentangled. He won't ever have to grieve – for he has nothing to grieve. The ocean is eternal; the ocean will provide him what no Mer or Selk or Shorer could.

But not a friend.

Opening his eyes, he looks around the dim cave, at his brilliant and lonely collection, and feels an ache in his chest like poison. He has only been at this for twenty years – cannot recall anything before it, only that Siren Who Came Before him, and this fleeting forever after. One day, when he has grown weary of his pious servitude, he will thrust his post upon another, and they will carry the legacy onward, in an endless chain.

It is a most uninspiring future. Death in obscurity, a quiet passing away, unremarked and unnoticed, until he is just the predecessor of the Siren Who Comes After him.

Wedging himself through the opening, he strives with almost desperate abandon for the surface, cresting the waves and bobbing in the surf, stretching for days at his back. He could run, run to a place no shorelander would dare. Why he lingers at this port, this quiet and nearly always empty shore, he does not know. But he looks out over it, spattered with rain and quiet abandon, and feels himself drawn towards it. He drifts closer, heedless of the eyes that won't see him, and sojourns to his stack. A moonless, cloudy sky looks over him, hiding him from view more effectively than even the waves.

His ears pick up the braying of sailors not-far, and he turns to face the long boat making its way towards shore a good distance away. Keen as it is, his hearing could detect a whisper of conversation from the shore itself, but he ducks his head underneath the surface to block it out. He has never been overly fond of the noise. It overwhelms him. The Merpeople prefer to speak one at a time, and the Selkies not at all. Only shorelanders laugh and squall with such unconcerned buoyancy.

Still, they make quite a show. He sinks underneath and paddles as close as he dares, covering the span in slow strokes as the ship idles away. The old storm has moved on, and the sailors aboard have reclaimed the night with their laughter like seagulls. He passes along the length of the ship, unbeknownst to the crew, and brushes a careful hand against the wood. Strange, how heavy it is – how it floats, he does not know. He leans up, pressing both hands against the side, claws digging in a little, and still it does not give way.

Fascinated, he sinks back beneath the waves and repeats the experiment on either side of the ship, but no corner of her hull succumbs. Not that he wants it to – although certainly a challenge appeals to him, in his world of quietude. Something dangerous could almost be _fun_.

Of course, if he really, truly wanted to upend the ship, all he would have to do is sing.

But he keeps his mouth shut and sinks self-consciously back into the water when a large white furry creature leans over the edge of the ship above and barks at him. Eyes just above the waterline, he watches the beast lean closer, and wonders if he won't have to beat a hasty retreat. Then a sailor shouts and the beast retreats, and the Siren sinks beneath the waves just in time to avoid the inquisitive glance of the man.

He's always been nervous around sailors and shorelanders, as nervous as he is inquisitive, for Merfolk and Selkies share the seas, while sailors and shorelanders drift _on land_. It boggles him – why would any creature want to live so far from the ocean? What _calls_ them?

And yet he understands the yearning, and quietly knows that he watches the shorelanders not out of idle curiosity at all – but envy, a soft, burning, irrepressible thing.

Daring to emerge, he sees an empty deck above, and he floats back a few waves, giving himself a better view of the ship and its voyagers. Oblivious to his presence, the sailors joust and laugh and jockey for wares the Siren has no name for, pitching the occasional bottle overboard. The Siren lets them fall – the ocean takes time to turn the jagged glass into something soft and beautiful – and watches instead their owners carouse carelessly, a world away.

Someone strikes up a song and a yearning grows in the Siren's heart until it takes every ounce of will power not to open his mouth and _sing_. He swims close enough to dig his claws into the wooden boards of the ship, arrested by the tune, and aches to ask the sailors where they learned it. For he was born with the song in his heart – and yet here they invent them, just as they invent these vessels that should not bear any weight at all, without a second thought to the impossibility of such a thing.

The songs last deep into the night, but the Siren does not, gradually letting go of the wood as his hands grow numb with cold in the air. He stays just above the waves and listens, but the tune grows fainter as the sailors float away. He wants to ask them to play it again, but as they tire they fall quieter, and quieter, and quieter still, until he might be alone, but for the lapping of the waves against the ship.

He sinks below the surface and breathes in the ocean of which he is part, the ocean which so-long-ago stole his breath, and aches for a moment to be human again.

Then Barry surfaces into a world of fire.

. o .

It's cold, a breath above freezing, but Iris doesn't mind.

She idles across the shore, looking for nothing in particular, passing time until the Duke's arrival. She enjoys the Duke's company – Eddie Thawne has no trouble finding excuses for finicky friends to explain her long, solitary sojourns – but she also enjoys her time at the edge of the ocean. She especially enjoys it when others have retreated, leaving her alone, conversing with the great beast as if it were alive.

Holding her shawl close, she pauses when a spark of soft blue catches her eye. Reaching down, she plucks the stone from its perch, examining it in the fading afternoon light. A sharp screech jerks her head upright, but there's nothing there – just ocean as far as the eye can see. Keeping a firm grip on the stone, she walks slowly, deliberately up the shoreline. And she can almost swear she sees a ripple, the flicker of something not-so-simple out there, but rain dapples the surface before she can confirm it.

There are legends, myths, stories sailors tell to shorten the sojourns which are otherwise intolerable – but she's never fully accepted their unreality.

Something is out there, she knows, and she pauses at the crest of the shore, aching for a moment to find out _what_. It wouldn't be difficult – she could simply lay aside her shawl and swim until her lungs gave out – but it would be costly. And she cannot surrender so easily to such a flat fate, no matter how burning her curiosity.

Yet even as she tempts cold with the thickening rain, she only moves down the shore, retreating farther and farther from the civilization she knows. She wants to call out, but what would she say that something would respond to? Nothing comes to mind, and eventually the rain relents, her soaked clothes pressing unforgivingly against her sea-salted skin. She shivers once, and dares to press her bare feet into the breathtaking froth.

Soon they go numb and the cold is less violent, and she watches almost in a trance as a distance ship approaches shore, alight with torches and sailors conversing, almost-but-not-quite audible from here. It's a mile walk to port, and she could make it, but she cuts back across the rocky bank, curving up the path back to town.

She is nearly at the cobbled road leading back to the castle when she sees the brilliant blaze approaching port – a brilliant, terrible blaze, shouts breaking over the waves as sailors fight the sudden, consumptive fire with equal fury. She turns and runs full-tilt towards it, halting at the pier with a burning stitch in her side. In horror, she watches the ship fracture, plunging shouting sailors into the sea.

There's chaos on the pier as drowsing bystanders rouse. No one knows the cause of the fire, but no one cares. A pair of rowboats departs as the remaining half-dozen watchers anxiously attempt to assemble a more formidable rescue. Helpless, Iris can only stare in horror.

In seconds, silence consumes the sea, broken only by the faint shouts of the rowers. They pry a few men from the water, dragging them with obvious effort into their boats, but the rest are nowhere to be found. Iris' heart pounds; her mouth runs dry. _Please_ , she pleads. _Please._

She doesn't know who she's asking – the very ocean itself, it seems – but there's nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Then, with almost comical abruptness, a man leaps out of the waves. He lands with an audible _thump_ in a rowboat, and before the extraordinary feat can be processed, a second man repeats it.

Except, Iris realizes, dazed and amazed, he doesn't jump – he's _thrown_. Iris scans the waves, but she can't see anything subsurface. A third sailor shouts as he's launched in the air, landing in the second boat. A third rowboat approaches in time to catch a fourth sailor, a fifth following after a painfully long pause. By the sixth, Iris has a hand pressed to her mouth, scarcely daring to believe her eyes.

A seventh sailor appears at the surface; the third boat quickly retrieves him. Seconds later, they haul the eighth from the water, and relieved tears cloud Iris' eyes. Added to the initial rescues, that makes a dozen even – a full crew.

A barking dog paddles close to the pier and several of the remaining bystanders reach down and haul him up, Iris' amazement scarcely abating at the magnificent recovery.

Then there's a commotion at the first boat as two of the men attempt to haul something – some _one_ – from the water, a someone who decidedly does not understand the purpose of a rescue, thrashing and struggling mightily against their hold. He kicks up enough of a commotion that he nearly overturns the boat, and another man quickly joins the first two, shouting indecipherably at them. Somebody jumps in the water and the reluctant rescue becomes apoplectic, churning up the water violently.

The man in the water succeeds in getting a grip on his reluctant comrade, and Iris wonders if the violence isn't the result of trauma at the contrast of fire and ice. But despite his efforts to thwart his own rescue, the sailors are relentless. The message is clear: they aren't going to let him drown.

She doesn't see what happens next – only hears the low, baleful cry, almost wolfish in its depth – before both men on the boat let their charge go. The thirteenth man plunges beneath the surface, dragging his would-be rescuer with him, but before Iris can wonder the rescuer is projected upwards and lands hard in the boat.

The others scan the water, but the thirteenth man never resurfaces, and Iris' chest feels tight as she watches the remaining crew finally row ashore. Bewildered, half-frozen, and in dire need of a brandy, the men dock and shake hands, recounting the explosion – and tantalizing snippets of the rescue, the strangest of commonalities underlying every story: a stranger, silent and strong, propelling them up out of the water and onto the safety of the boats. They examine claw marks imprinted precisely against their backs and sides, reflecting the grip of their rescuer.

Iris stands in the middle of it, unable to retreat, unable to move forward, the stone burning in her hand.

At last, a man acknowledges her with a start: " _Princess Iris_. What are you doing here?"

She tightens her grip on the stone. "Who was that man?" she asks.

The man shakes his head. "A poor fool," he says, reaching out for her before hesitating, at last stripping the sheepskin from his own back and offering it to her. "You must be freezing. Come, come. This is no place for a lady."

Iris takes the offered skin but holds her ground, insisting quietly, "I want his name."

"I'll find it for you," the man vows with the polite sort of distance reserved for telling a lady he will kill a chicken kindly – cordial and unreflective. "Why don't I find you a carriage?"

Iris says, "I can walk," but she trembles where she stands, and does not resist when the man succeeds in flagging down a fellow and his steed, instead allowing herself to be gently guided to the step. Climbing into the carriage, she finds herself exhaling deeply for the first time in minutes, tension easing out of her in the quiet, enclosed space.

Sea accidents are always traumatic, she reflects, lulled into quiet reflection by the familiar rocking of the horse pulling the carriage along. Even the sharpest minds could play tricks under those circumstances. Surely – _surely_ – it was an illusion, brought about by the sudden transpiration of events. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing _impossible_.

But the stone burns in her hand, and she can't help but think that the ocean didn't lie and neither did her eyes.

 _Something is out there_.

And she'll be damned if she doesn't find out _what_.

. o .

Wedging himself in his cave with almost frantic violence, the Siren trembles from crown to tail, curling his arms tightly around his chest. The hands of sailors feel branded into his skin. This, _this_ is why Sirens do not interact with sailors or shorelanders, _humans_ of any sort. They're violent, compulsive creatures – prone to fishing anything that moves out of the ocean, for purposes he knows not, and he sinks into the smallest crouch he can, terribly aware of how many saw him, his face, his _face_ , if they knew he existed they wouldn't stop until they found him again because that is what humans _did_.

Maybe if he stays here forever everything will be fine: they will pass away quietly and he can come back to the surface in a hundred years or so. Sick to his stomach, he closes his eyes, willing the panic away. No human could survive down here for long – no one would even know where he is, let alone come after him. Here, he's safe. He's safe.

Slowly, slowly, his heart rate comes down. He's _safe_. No one even knows he's here. Humans have short memories – he knows, he _knows_ , because there is a nagging other-half of his reality that attempts to intrude any time he stares at the shore, like it will coalesce into being if he _looks_ hard enough, something missing, something-that-was-there – and they will soon forget their strange encounter. They always do. If they didn't, he couldn't coexist with them – they would hunt him down, hunt him because he could hurt them, hunt him because he existed outside their own contrived reality.

His soft blue prison is the safest place in the ocean, and he will always be safest _alone_.

And if he saved them – if he dared to get close enough for them to try to drag him out of the water, the ocean, _home_ – then maybe he is relieved, in a quiet corner of his heart, that there will be no funerals tonight.

He doesn't leave his cave for a week.


	2. Chapter 2

What would you trade for the chance to walk on another world?

The simple stuff is easy to imagine: a sum of money ( _I have no money_ ), an opportunity to travel elsewhere ( _the world is my oyster_ ), a treasured item ( _there is no treasure the ocean cannot resupply_ ). Then there are more complicated choices: a minute of your life ( _a small price to pay until it's my last_ ), an irreplaceable keepsake ( _where did father keep my mother's ring?_ ), a favorite scent ( _jasmine_ ). Still there are sharper cuts to be made: an hour of your life ( _the last hour of mother's_ ), your right hand ( _my left could learn to suffice_ ), your home ( _home is where I am_ ). At last there are sacrifices that give pause to the steadiest hand: the loss of sight ( _for what purpose to be on another plane, and not see it?_ ), the future deprivation of pleasure ( _one happy memory would be enough)_ , the inability to express oneself fully, to laugh, to sing ( _can I express myself here?_ ). The sweeping solitude of discovery - the electrifying thrill of being alone - the terror of reaching out for a hand that will never be there - the devastation of finding oneself unreachable, a world unto oneself-

Barry opens his eyes and stares at the roof of the ocean, keenly aware of the world beyond it.

Kicking off lightly with his tail, he surges upward and glides to the surface, breaching soundlessly. It's only morning up here, the world painted in scathing reds and luminescent golds, tempting him towards the strange world. Bobbing in the surf, he watches the waves roll in, creeping up the shoreline, only to recede back. For years, it has been a dance he has admired, a synchronicity of being like a great living heartbeat, the ocean's living pulse. But watching it now, in the misted context of _longing_ , he sees a beast straining for more, reaching as high as it can only to fall short, and tumbling back on itself to shore up another attempt. Again and again the waves strain for the high ground, and Barry's heart lodges in his throat as he realizes how utterly futile the task is with each recessive wash.

 _All day you watch_ , the ocean seems to rebuke, slapping him lightly with a wave he does not duck to avoid. _Have I not given you everything?_

Sinking beneath the surface, firmly rebuked, he drifts towards the bottom of the lake, scouring for blue stones. There are rusty red and translucent green ones, but he likes the soft blues. In his mind's eye he can almost see a small jar full of them, sitting on a wooden table, in the small enclosed home of one of those shorelanders, but it's a memory so old it is more dream than reality. It is a beautiful dream - a woman with red hair and a warm smile inhabits the dream, alongside a man with tired laugh lines and peppered scruff on his chin - but one that does not belong in a Siren's heart.

That is the one thing the Siren Who Came Before taught him: _do not long for your life before. You are only a Siren now. And you will only be a Siren after you are gone, remembered by the Siren Who Comes After you._

It is a beautiful legacy, he has comforted himself on many a quiet night, to carry on the chain of Sirens. For who among the myriad sailors and shorelanders, the troves of merfolk and selkies, the vast plentitudes of all manner of sea creature, might claim to be the singular cause for existence? There are countless stars in the sky, but there is only one Siren. He bears the song of his people, and if he dies without successor, they die with him.

He surfaces at the thought, suffocating in the silence. He doesn't like to entertain the thought of a successor. He knows the shorelanders and sailors express great affection for their children, but the thought of dragging a child into this life makes him sick. Children deserve to be surrounded by their kin - not taken into the dark, cold, quiet, never to be heard from again.

A story nags him, a story from that other-time-he-has-almost-forgotten. Floating on his back and closing his eyes, he can hear the footsteps over the rocks as a seven-year-old boy tramples hopefully onward, heedless of how far he has traveled from home. But home does not exist anymore - home is only the orphanage, with the other boys and girls who never had parents, and the boys and girls who couldn't keep them. It aches in his chest, a visceral, powerful premonition: the boy's parents had been dead but a month, and he wasn't adapting well to the orphanage. They'd never had much, the boy and his parents, but they'd had each other, and that was a beautiful thing.

So the boy ran away, not for long, not meaning to, but too far to be found easily, and no one came looking. He wandered the shore until the cold began to distract him, and then distress him, and finally halt him in his tracks. His new home was far away - far up the shore, maybe miles away, whole worlds when you were only seven - and he didn't know if he even wanted to return to it. Trembling, the little boy sat on the rocks and hoped someone would find him, someone would take him home, and the rest would fade away.

Someone found him.

Barry remembers it as if it happened in a dream, happened to someone else, happened to anyone but him.

Sitting on the shore, he was first conscious of those deep blue eyes fixed on him and that irresistible voice saying, "Child, what are you doing here?"

Sniffling, he replied, "I - I got lost."

Floating a good way away, the blue-eyed Siren looked perfectly human. "Come with me," he suggested. "I will take you home."

But the child was scared of the water which drowned even sailors, and said so: "I'll drown."

"I won't let that happen," the Siren promised. "Come, child. I will take you home."

There was something about the voice - if pressed, he could never define it, any more than he could describe what his mother's last hug felt like - that compelled him to rise, and wade hesitantly into the water. "That's it," the Siren encouraged. "It's not dangerous, you see. The ocean is quite kind. She only drowns those who are unkind to her. The loud, the cruel, the foolish."

The more the Siren spoke, the more confident the boy became, stepping through the water and staring at him. "I won't be unkind," he promised, in a voice that only shook with cold.

"I know you won't," the Siren reassured. The boy struggled a little more in the deeper water, forced to swim, and slowly the Siren drifted towards him. He seemed strained, almost sickly, the nearer he drew. Those intense blue eyes seemed suddenly poisonous, like a snake's: fixed, fixing. "You will be good. Because you, my child - you will walk the ocean floor, and ride the ocean waves, and sail to every depth you can imagine, and there you will comfort her with your song."

"I can't sing," the boy chattered, a wave splashing water up to his mouth. "Not even a little."

But the Siren just said, "It is what we do." And at last, when the boy seemed fit to sink under the waves, the Siren closed the gap between them and took his hands. But instead of lifting him up, as the boy expected - as all adults in his life had been wont to do when he found himself in deep water, literal or otherwise - the Siren merely smiled, revealing the sharp edges of those pointed canines, and pulled him farther out into the water. "You have a strong heart," the Siren mused. "I almost feel bad to take you from them. What you could do for them."

The boy said, "It's too deep out here," and tried to pull away.

"No," the Siren said, "it's too shallow." He began to pull harder, and panic set in.

"I must be going," the boy insisted.

But the Siren said, "There's nowhere else for you to go. What family abandons their child?"

And a terrible sadness subsumed the boy's fear as he confessed, "I have no family. Not anymore."

A sympathetic rumble, almost a growl, resonated in the Siren's chest. "You have the ocean," he said simply. "And the Sirens."

"What's a Siren?"

The Siren smiled. "You'll find out." And still farther they drifted. The boy had no choice, now, but the Siren began to hum a tune that was imprinted on his soul, a song that transcended memory, that escaped definition. The boy's fear vanished. He found himself entranced by the song, and did not struggle when the Siren sank below the waves, and pulled him under.

Humming to himself, Barry lets the rumble build in his chest, a soft, indefinable song, the-impression-of-a-song, safe to sing to the rising sun without drawing attention. He loves the song, savors the way it feels in his chest - sweet and thick like honey, an emotion as deep as love - and relishes the way it uplifts his spirits. There is nothing the Siren's song cannot cure for him - no physical ail or mental abrasion too sharp to resist the calming hymns of Before. For a boy in pain, it was a gift - almost a return that made drowning worth it.

It is the Earth's language, impressed upon its oceans long before shorelanders and sailors ever spoke, before merfolk and selkies and sea creatures ever mused, and it is the sound which all living beings remember, and submit to. The hearts of all creatures yearn for it, aching for the confluence of all life. That is what makes it so terrible.

It is love for something that can never be repeated that drowns the souls of the living. To hear a Siren sing is the last thing any creature will ever do - and rightly so. For the heartbreak of leaving it behind, and attempting to live without it, knowing that it exists - that exceeds the pain of letting it consume them.

Barry keeps his mouth closed, denying himself the full-throated joy of the song, knowing how easy it is to ensnare unintended victims. He would rather suffer a lifetime of silence than drag one more soul to a watery grave.

He is quiet, and careful, and for almost sixteen years he has kept that silence.

It burns like a hole in his chest, but it has not destroyed him yet. Letting the hum taper off, he feels an ache so intense it is like physical pain, twisting onto his side and sinking low in the water, clawing at his own chest. Fury and frustration slow to a sullen simmer, his hands drifting back to his sides.

Why must he suffer for their sake? A terrible sort of darkness clouds his eyes, making the world seem small, finite. To take the life of a single creature - surely it will do no harm to the Earth, which endowed him with this gift, this profound and wonderful thing. They would die happy - die in a way far kinder than afforded to any of their kin. At an hour of his choosing, but propelled by their own movements. He is less predatorial than the sharks, and less violent, too. They love the song, long for the song, as assuredly as he does.

But he alone will not die if he sings it, and it is that gut-wrenching finality - _I will not kill_ \- that presses the haze back, revealing only calm blue water on all sides.

Hating himself a little, he drifts shoreward and follows the current, letting the rhythm pummeling of the waves pass over him. It helps to clear his mind, to haul him away from the darker impulses. Time quickens, synced to the rise and fall of breaking water, and he finds himself breathing again, inhaling the steady cool ocean, exhaling the quiet green earth.

When he surfaces at last, he feels safer, saner - less likely to shatter. A blue stone glistens invitingly on shore, just within the wash, and he drifts towards it. With a glance up the shoreline - all clear - he reaches out and gently plucks the stone from the beach. Slipping back quickly into deeper water, he turns it over in hand, the simple rhythm restoring his sense of calm. _The ocean is kind_ , he thinks, recalling the sharp edges, the cutting edges of the glass which broke raggedly at first, reshaped by the rhythmic waters into something soft and easy to handle. _The ocean is kind_.

He returns to his den and looks at all the small blue stones, shining brilliantly in the mid-morning light. He presses his newest find into an empty space, and brushes his shoulder against the wall, the pebbled surface impressing against his skin comfortably, soft enough it doesn't hurt. But his cave is small, and unshared, and a quiet compulsion to share presses him to remove a stone from the surface, a stone placed long ago, and take it with him to the surface.

Waiting, waiting, waiting - the easiest thing in the world for a Siren adrift, through space, through time - yields the moment to act. For the shorelander returns, and he disappears underwater before her searching gaze finds him. Heart pounding, curious and hopeful and joyful all at once, he looks at the stone, the lovely blue stone, and drifts as close as he dares without being seen. Then, just as the next wave begins to roll, he releases the shiny blue rock.

Fleeing to the sea stack, he peers around it just in time to see his find press against the sand, just as hoped, just as expected. The shorelander approaches, and another wave threatens to take away the stone, but it does not. Claws clutching the rock, Barry watches wave after wave approach the stone, wash over the stone, but leave it behind, awaiting discovery.

And at last, after an agonizing interim of watching, Barry straightens as the shorelander crouches and picks up the glass. He aches to call out, to sing to her, to share the burgeoning warmth in his heart, but he keeps his silence. And she looks up and he ducks shyly away, back to the wall, still above the surface. So close, and yet-

Then he hears a sharp _plink_ as something lands nearby, and ducks underwater to see the same stone hovering in the water. Agony pins him for a moment, the rejection painfully personal - but as he swims to reclaim it, an unbelievable thought, a preposterous thought, a _wonderful_ thought occurs to him.

Careful, so careful, because he knows he's being watched now - he drifts towards the shore, and when the wave rolls just so he releases it.

Despite his great swiftness underwater, he barely makes it back to the sea stack before his little blue rock tumbles into view on the rocks. The shorelander picks it up and looks out, and she says, "Do you like to play games?" He can't answer, but he makes a little splash in his haste to duck below and catch the next volley, and around and around they go.

He's so into it that he almost - almost - _almost_ lets himself be seen, each attempt a little more daring, each return trip a little slower, his watch lingering longer before he retrieves the rock. The ocean brings it back every time, and he knows the ocean is kind because she doesn't let the tide carry the rock away like it is wont to.

Inspired, he doubles back and retrieves a handful of blue stones, as quickly as he can, and allows the whole lot to drift onto the next wave. He's quick and splashy when he returns to the sea stack, and for a moment her gaze is almost upon him. Pressing back against the stone, he does not dare to watch her, but he doesn't need to - for her laugh is bright, and light, and worth every stone he has.

"They'll think I'm mad," she muses. "But you are quite wonderful." Then, pitching a single stone back - he knows because he hears but one - she adds lightly, "Whoever you are."

Cheeks flushed, he slips underwater carefully, so carefully, making not even the tiniest ripple to indicate his presence, and still he is aware of her gaze, so near, and still so ignorant of the truth.

 _What is the harm?_ He wonders, knowing fully well how much harm he could unintentionally inflict on her, but the stone is still somehow, still impossibly warm from her hand. He cradles it close to his chest, and cannot fight a small smile.

By the time he resurfaces - a countless time later - she's gone, but he still has the little blue stone in hand, warmed against his own heart.

 _It's not compulsive,_ he justifies. _She's just as curious as I am._

It tickles him, that she might be interested in him, to any degree approaching his interest in her, and he finds himself scouring the bottom of the shore fiercely for every blue pebble that turns up.

. o .

It could be luck, the first time, although Iris knows from cards that luck is rarely on her side.

But when the stone drifts back to her, once, then twice, and yet again a third time, in nearly exactly the same place, she knows that it cannot be coincidence.

It sets her heart racing when it happens again - for it _cannot be coincidence_ , and that means the impossible - and she picks it up more reflexively than anything, casting it back out to sea, and waiting for it to return.

 _Something is out there_ , she thinks, and holds the stone in hand for a long moment, scanning the waves for any sign of a discongruity. When she dares to toss the stone out, she watches the place it falls carefully, and feels her heart skip a beat when the water ripples at odds with the flow.

 _A playful fish_ , she thinks, but the ripple is too large, and no shark possesses the deftness to grasp such a small item. Nor the wit to bring it back, again and again, almost puppyish in nature.

At last, hands a little numb from the cold - Annapurna is a lovely place, but warm, it is not - she tosses the stone one last time.

It does not return at once, and she waits, and waits, and waits, and begins to wonder if it wasn't all an extraordinary stroke of luck after all, how her father will tease her when she tells him.

But before she walks away to warm her hands around a cup of tea, a whole stream of blue stones washes up, and she laughs for sheer joy.

Whatever it is, it has a sense of humor. Aloud, she admits, "They'll think I'm mad, but you are quite wonderful." Inspired, she tosses a single stone back, adding, "Whoever you are."

Nothing emerges to acknowledge her, and she finds herself relieved - for what does she truly expect? What would she dare _say_? The sailors tell stories - but it is one thing to hear of extraordinary things, and another to experience them.

The blue stone does not return, and she does not wait for it - for she promised to meet Linda in town, not spend the whole day at the ocean, trying to tease myths from the waves. _If something is there,_ she thinks, _it will show itself eventually._

Until then - she pockets the stones and smiles the whole way back to town.


	3. Chapter 3

"What a magnificent life you lead."

The first mate, securing a rope, barks a laugh. "Absolutely splendid," he agrees, hair in a ponytail to counter the fearsome gusts. "Not the finest day for a sail, though."

"Welcome to Annapurna," Iris replies dryly, hands on the railing. Drifting down the coast, the ship rises and falls with the swells, occasionally spraying them with cold seawater. Sea-toughened, she doesn't retreat below deck to the cabin, smile emplaced as the chill raises goosebumps on her arms.

It's tradition for a member of the royal family to inspect the big ships on the last day of the autumn season. Preceding royals typically held shoreside chats with the skippers before contenting themselves that things were in order. Ever since her father let Iris aboard _his_ father's grand vessel, Iris hasn't missed an opportunity to sail. For twelve years, she has been the premier inspector.

Wally doesn't mind handing over the duty: a fan of horses and cards, he's happy to deal with traders on land. At the onset of her sail, he stood on the dock with her, watching the skipping water. "I do not envy you," he told her, fierce winds tugging at his royal red coat. "Good luck." With a parting kiss to his cheek, Iris boarded the Rathaway's marvelous sea-beast, the _Nocturn_ , and set sail.

"How much delay might we accumulate today?" were the first words out of Iris' mouth.

Captain Jacob Rathaway smiled and put them on a course for the northern shoals. "Resplendent, this time of year," he promised, kissing her hand. "But if the seas become too violent, we will have to return prematurely. I would never endanger a Princess."

"And I would never live a life without a little danger," Iris replied.

Which is why, despite the brisk wind, they persist. The ocean's violence does not concern Iris. The board beneath her hands is firm, the vessel well put-together. Like a trusted stallion, she knows it will endure if put to the test.

They reach the shoals early mid-afternoon, fighting the ocean for every inch. Ears ringing and cheeks stinging with cold, Iris smiles when she sees first one and then a second dolphin lunge out of the water. There's an entire pod taking advantage of the harvest, appearing and disappearing before she can get a proper count. Her best estimate approaches thirty, an astonishing number this late in the year. "One last feast," the first mate explains, double-checking the ropes on the mast and smiling.

They'll move on once winter drives the last of the shoals to warmer waters for the season, but for now – for now, Iris marvels them, longing for a word sufficient to capture their beauty. "It's magical," she says at last.

They linger off-shore for a time, riding the waves. Hours pass, the numbness sinking knives into Iris' hands and chest, but she stays above deck. Her pride is not such that she refuses a drier cloak that a deckhand fishes from the ship's interior, graciously accepting it.

It doesn't stay dry for long, but it does help. Iris' mind drifts, imagining the warm halls of her family's castle, the sumptuous heat of cooked meat against her teeth. The crackling warmth of the hearth fire is almost tangible against her back. She leans into the illusion, back against the railing, but a rousing splash of seawater reminds her that home is not here, not yet.

At last, the sailors begin the arduous task of a return voyage. The wind is on their side, but the pitch of the waves is even more violent than before. Were it not more nauseating below-deck, Iris might take shelter in the belly of the beast. Above-deck, the _Nocturn_ performs gallantly, but the elements conspire against them, threatening to rip sails and tear ropes.

"No finer weather!" the first mate exclaims, arms bulging as he holds the wheel steady for Captain Rathaway.

A wave like a cannonball crashes into them, lurching the wheel from his grasp and sending the ship listing dangerously starboard. "Hold the wheel!" Captain Rathaway thunders, but a second wave drowns out his remonstrance as it sweeps over the entire deck.

Iris does not know where ocean begins and ship ends as a wall of water crashes into her. She doesn't consciously release the rail, nor does she register the moment her feet leave the deck, but in an instant, she is engulfed, not in a wave but in the ocean. The cold is so spectacular it robs her of speech. When she breaks above the waves, there are people shouting, scrambling, but she sinks underneath before she can respond to any of them.

Heart beating slowly, timpanically in her ears, she pushes herself towards the surface, but none of her limbs want to cooperate. Lungs straining for air, she manages to snatch a breath in the rolling seas. Above her, a world away, the noise on the deck is calamitous, but none of it makes any sense to her. Hungry, the water tugs her back under.

She kicks a little, but her efforts are too weak to make any progress. Her arms are too stiff to paddle properly, and she sinks farther and farther from the source of light above her. Something hits the water and she's conscious of a rope, but she can't move at all.

 _I am about to die_ , she thinks.

She expects terror, but her mind is already numb, almost light. The scene seems almost mythical, the chiaroscuro of light and dark above her dancing as the darkness closes in on all sides. She can picture Wally laughing over a tankard of ale in his favorite tavern with a pair of people Iris cannot identify, warm and pleased. It pleases her, knowing he is well. He will take care of mother and father, and all will be right above the world.

Her sight flickers and a different vision occludes the first. She watches herself as a child chasing a younger Wally down a hill. He has a strong lead, crowing for her to catch him, but no matter how fast Iris goes or how greatly her lungs burn, she can't.

She feels something wrap around her, little points of sharpness like tiny thorns prickling along her sides, but her mind wanders farther and farther away from the sensation. She can hear the song in her mother's chest as she hums and brushes out a black mare's coat, see her father's smile as he teaches her how to sail, and then—

Then the water rushes past her as she rises, tiny thorns still pressed against her side, and with numb disinterest she reaches for them, to pull them out, but merely rests her hand on the arm she finds. She feels the presence behind her lurch and expects to be let go, but she breaks the surface instead, shouting and crashing waves tumultuously loud. In a dream, she watches the first mate shout above her, returning with a rope and lowering it down. With childlike wonder, she reaches for it, but her hands are too stiff to respond.

Making a strange sound behind her, a grunt of frustration, the stranger disappears, taking its thorns, and she has no purchase to hold onto, sinking, sinking, a sinking feeling in her chest like a bad storm lending renewed urgency to her shocked system.

It's all a dream, then, as some strange mythical creature yanks hard on the rope and dives back behind her. Her failing eyes can't discern anything more than a vaguely dolphin-like proportionality to the shadow moving around her, a flat, paddle-tailed creature with clawed hands. Curiosity and amazement crowds out all other emotions as she feels the rope slung first around her waist and then shoulder, a crude knot, and then the dolphin's claws dig into her side as it gives her a last push to the surface.

Pain gives her something to focus on as she gasps in a breath. The rope hauls her upward, just far enough for a cluster of hands to drag her aboard, she wants to look back but cannot manage it as, with a final splash, the dolphin disappears.

Then she's lying on the deck and they're still shouting over the waves, but she doesn't respond to them, closing her eyes and disappearing for a time.

. o .

The dolphins keep their distance from the Siren.

It suits Barry well. The whales and sharks extend him a predatory courtesy, but the dolphins have no qualms driving him out of their chosen turf.

Floating alongside the ship, he silently shepherds the sailors along, aching to warn them off their voyage. _The ocean is dangerous_ , he wants to tell them, but he holds his silence because they already know, and still they choose to try their luck.

When the waves churn up to a formidable froth, he sinks deep enough that they cannot touch him, tempted to double back and shelter in his cave. But something compels him to stay, some curious, indefinable instinct to bear witness arresting him to his spot, and then, almost on cue, a sailor hits the water and plunges under the waves.

Paddling over, Barry keeps his distance, assessing for danger – for an awareness that signals trouble; more than one sailor has attacked him for his efforts – before jerking back in surprise. _Could it be?_ he thinks, approaching the woman with renewed haste because it cannot be, it _cannot_ be the same shorelander.

He stares as the shorelander sinks. Urgency overtakes surprise, almost appalment, and he dives after her, careful to keep his distance. With practiced ease, he gets an arm around her mid-section, his clawed hand pressing against her side. He keeps the pressure as light as he can, afraid to make a single error, one little movement that will drive her away forever, but she doesn't flee. Paddling upward, he nearly drops her when he feels a hand rest on top of his own, heart beating very fast in his chest because no shorelander has ever _touched him_.

At the surface, he stays as low as he can, desperate not to be seen. A rope appears and he almost drops her in surprise. Holding steady, he waits for her to grab it, but she doesn't reach for it. After a beat – her breath shaky and quick against him, gasping – he realizes she _can't_ , an exasperated sort of fear crowding out everything else as he lets her go and reaches for the rope, diving back under and tying it first around her waist and then looping it over one shoulder, mimicking what he's seen the sailors do.

He knows it's clumsy and only hopes it's not so clumsy that they can't make it work, helping her back to the surface. Thankfully, the waves and noise are sufficiently distracting to keep the sailors from noticing the monster in their midst, their alarm directed solely at her. He stays until they get her to the deck, and then – noticing a single amazed gaze upon him – frantically dives back under, tail slapping the water in his haste.

. o .

"A thousand apologies," Captain Rathaway is saying to a deeply unimpressed King Joseph, kneeling before his ruler. "Ten thousand apologies, Your Highness. It will never happen again."

"You endanger my daughter," he says, and his voice is the tight sort of strained that first mate Cisco Ramon knows, usually preceding a beating of sorts, "you take her out to _sea_?"

Captain Rathaway does not make the mistake of pointing out that it was requested. Instead, he says simply, "I am sorry, Your Highness."

The King growls and says, "I must attend my daughter. I will send my courier with the penalty tomorrow."

Still bowed, Captain Rathaway doesn't speak as the King mounts a dappled-grey horse, leading the stallion up the street back towards the castle his daughter is already bound for. With slow, almost creaking movements, Captain Rathaway straightens and returns to his ship, moored at last. The sailors are silent, pausing to look at him. Without a word, Captain Rathaway strides down the deck, double-checking everything. Silently dismissed, the sailors drift away.

Cisco lingers on the decks, wind-blasted but steady, staring out at the waves. He can almost see the face gazing back at him, a wide-eyed man with head and shoulders above the water vanishing before Cisco could so much as call out. With frantic urgency, he'd turned back to the ship where the others were already frantically attempting to revive Princess, and realized the head count was unchanged.

 _No stranger could survive so long in these seas_ , he thought, bewildered. When he looked again, the stranger was gone.

He could have dismissed the sighting to pure imagination if he hadn't felt the sharp tug on the rope below-water and seen the claw marks on the Princess's side for himself. Something was there – and some _one_ was there. There was simply no other explanation for it.

 _Unless you were seeing things_.

But Cisco has a sharp eye and knows, _knows_ it wasn't the seas themselves playing tricks on him.

 _How to lure it out again?_ he wonders, tying up ropes. _Every creature wants for something._

The thought of encountering a mermaid – merman, he supposes – is too thrilling to dismiss. So many sailors have spoken of them, but Cisco scarcely dared to believe in them with Captain Rathaway's sharp dismissal of the idea. And if there's one, there might even be others. How wonderful, he muses, to meet an entire species of human who live _under the sea_.

Silently attending his duties, he begins to sketch a plan to find the merman again.

. o .

Under the pier, the Siren jolts when an eel slithers past him, snapping electricity at his back.

 _You should leave this place,_ it advises, sending an electrical crackle down his arm when he turns to face it. _You grow too fond of them._

Barry bares his teeth, twisting sharply out of reach when a second eel snaps his neck with another jolt and adds, _What sort of Siren_ are _you?_

 _You're supposed to drown them_ , the first eel elaborates. He drifts away from them, but they're faster, slighter, keeping pace on either side. _What else are we supposed to feed upon?_

A thrill of disgust shoots down Barry's spine, bringing a growl to his throat. _You have one task,_ the first eel continues. _Just one._

 _Do you even know how to sing?_ the second scoffs, snapping his lower back. _Sing, Siren. We hunger._

 _We hunger,_ repeats the first, sinking its teeth into his wrist. He pries it off, but the eel is slippery, hard to grasp, and abandons him before he truly succeeds. _Just give us one and we can be civil._

 _There's one right now,_ the second eel simpers. _Just bring it here, and we'll take care of it._

He drifts away from them, but the farther he goes, the more intensely they shock him, until finally he hovers just under the surface, watching the sailor finish up his tasks. He recognizes the man – the man who saw _him_ , and another painful jolt makes it seem almost worthwhile to kill him. _If they know you exist,_ the Siren Who Came Before him warned, _they'll kill you._

 _Sing,_ the first eel orders, zapping his side sharply.

He grasps for it, but it's already gone, slithering out of reach as the second lets a crackle race down his tail. Teeth gritted, he breaches the surface to appease them, still hidden under the wooden dock. Breathing harshly, he looks around, straining for an easy escape.

A brilliant, terrible idea occurs to him, and he sinks silently beneath the surface. He drifts closer to shore and the eels follow closely, not quite touching him. The beach shallows under the dock, and before either eel can recognize his ploy, he surges forward with a powerful kick, hauling himself ashore. The rocks are sharp and cold, sharp and cold, and he is heavy and clumsy without the buoyancy of water, but like the nimbler selkies, he succeeds in completely emerging.

The eels scream in frustration, but above the water he can only hear the faint, thudding spark of electricity. Breathing shallowly, he bares his teeth at them when they lift their heads above the waves.

 _Imbecile_ , the first snaps at him. _You will never be a shorelander again._

 _You are a Siren_ , the second spits. _Act like one._

But the Siren merely scoots back against the rocks until he is sure neither eel can reach him and glares at them. With gasping frustration, they sink below the surface, but he doesn't retreat to the warmth of the waves. He can see them swimming, churning, eager to expel their fury on him. It won't kill him – but neither will ripping off his fingers. The principle is simple: he would rather not experience it.

Shivering, he exhales harshly, a strange sort of thrill overtaking him despite his frustration and fear because he's _on shore._ He's on shore. He can't stand, couldn't walk if he caught fire, couldn't – what's the word? He wracks his brain, but it doesn't materialize until he hears footsteps closing in. _Run._

And then, urgently: _Run!_

But before he can move, there's a heavy net falling over him.

"Sorry," the sailor says while his ears are still ringing in fear, tripping down the rocks nearby and repeating, "sorry, I didn't – I didn't want you to run."

Barry stares at him for a long moment before beginning to shred the net as quickly as he can. It doesn't yield readily to his trembling fingers, claws not sharp enough to make much headway, and before he's even partially free the man is crouching in front of him, not ten feet away. "Gods be good, you are a merman," he says in wonder, and a smile lights up his face. "This is magical."

 _I'm not a merman,_ Barry thinks, putting the rope between his teeth and finally making a little headway. He freezes when the sailor takes another step forward, trying to slip back into the water, net and all. He can't, entangling himself in the rocks instead and looking at the sailor with what he hopes is more fury than fear.

His tail drifts into the water and he startles violently at the electric jolt it receives. Scrambling higher up the shore, he hisses when the sailor approaches, now almost in arm's reach.

"It's all right," the man assures. "I just – I've never met a merman before." The grin won't leave his face. "Wow. Can you talk?"

Barry automatically shakes his head, and for a moment it almost seems like it will be all right because, well, the sailor hasn't killed him and the eels will tire eventually and—

Then the sailor reaches into a pocket and produces a knife.


	4. Chapter 4

Barry stares at the knife.

He lets his gaze slide up to the sailor's and anguish must be clear in his eyes, for the sailor hastens to add, "For the ropes." Shuffling closer, he startles back a step when Barry slaps his tail against the rocks. Were they underwater, he could be a hundred feet away before the sailor's next words. "Here," he propositions, holding out the knife. "Just – don't take the sharp end." He takes Barry's muteness for idiocy, pointing at the blade and enunciating very clearly, "This is the sharp end. Do not touch it."

Extending the knife by the Sharp End, the sailor adds, "Go on. I promise, I'm not going to hurt you. Here, if you'd like, you can free yourself with it."

In gentle curiosity, the Siren accepts the silver-colored gift from the sailor. He grasps the handle and looks at the shiny blade, turning it in the dimming light of day. _Wow_. Running a hand across the Sharp End, he startles back violently when the sailor lunges forward with a sharp, "No, no, not that end!"

Warily, holding the knife close, Barry watches the sailor. He waits until the sailor takes a seat, cross-legged like a child, before lifting the knife again. "It's very sharp," the sailor reminds. "Very sharp." Looking worried, he asks, "Can you understand me at all? I'm afraid I assumed as much, but—"

Nonplussed by the sailor's crisis of the soul, Barry sets the Sharp End between his teeth and bites down hard. It doesn't break. Fascinated, he crunches down as hard as he can and growls low in his throat when the sailor leans forward hastily, attempting to retrieve it. He puts a clawed hand on the sailor's arm, effortlessly keeping him away. "I'm – _glad_ – you like it," the sailor puffs, as Barry gnaws on the knife while keeping the sailor away. "But I must discourage you from using it as such—"

The sailor changes tact, reaching for his tail. Appalled, Barry chirps once, a sort of expletive in the merfolk community, while the knife disappears from his grasp. The sound must have a transferable effect above water because the sailor stares at him, dumbfounded. "Wow," he says. "This is – truly extraordinary."

It's not the response Barry expects, and he's tempted to ask, _What is your equivalent?_ But he's learned not to ask any of the thousands of questions that have occurred to him over the years. Instead he spends his time revealing his frustrations to the Earth, careful not to be overheard. _I would give anything to be human,_ he will tell the gracious and listening moon, _even just for one day_.

Realizing this might be the very nearest to that opportunity, he cocks his head at the sailor with renewed interest. "Right," the sailor says, looking over his shoulder at the darkness crowding in with a rumble of thunder. "We, uh. Allow me to just…" He leans forward and Barry sucks in a deep breath, prepared to fight if need be, but the sailor merely reaches for a stretch of rope and begins sawing it. Amazingly, it yields. _My teeth are stronger_ , he wonders, watching the sailor work, memorizing it, _yet the knife prevails._

Idly, he reaches up a hand and bites down on his own fist. The indentations are properly sharp, not enough to break skin but enough to leave a mark. So it's not him – the knife is really that powerful. A treasure, he thinks, and with sudden inspiration taps the sailor's shoulder. "What?" the sailor asks, looking up. Rephrasing, he adds, "Is there something you need?"

Barry nods. He points to the knife. _That._

"I don't want you to hurt yourself," the sailor says.

Shaking his head fervently, Barry points to the knife and then to his own chest. The message seems quite plain: _Give it to me_.

Alarmed, the sailor adds, "No can do, my good mer-sir." Then, snickering to himself, he adds, "Do they have, uh, titles, where you come from?"

Barry lifts an eyebrow. Shorelander, Sailor, Siren – Selkie, Merfolk, Shark. These are the titles, and surely every sailor knows them. Nodding slowly, wondering if he shouldn't be more concerned for the sailor's sanity, he points again to the knife. Then he taps his own hand, deciding it is still instructive but less firm. The sailor gives it to him. Relieved, he sets it between his teeth and fusses with the ropes, sawing through them with his claws. It takes longer, but it means he never has to let the knife go.

"You know, they neglected to mention claws in the stories," the sailor muses, and Barry looks up at him. Holding up his hands in claw-like form, he adds, "You know, sharp nails."

Definitely needs to keep an eye on this one's sanity, Barry thinks, grateful he has the knife. He nods once, hoping to appease the poor creature.

"Mermaids are simply exquisitely beautiful women," the sailor explains. Barry huffs. "And, I suppose, the occasional man, for variety." With a twinkle in his eye, he adds, "Are there merchildren?"

Barry frowns, feeling out of place speaking on behalf of a race that utterly despises him. Face flushing, he shakes his head in a dismissive _it is not my place to speak of such things_ manner, but the truth is that there _are_ merchildren, wonderful quantities of merchildren, and more than a few have approached him with nothing but curiosity, for his strange, paddle-shaped tail and, yes, his clawed hands, attract open-minded spirits. Until their elders viciously drive him away.

"It does seem improbably difficult to bear children," the sailor concedes, taking his head-shake at face value. "I mean, how could you?" He glances meaningfully down at Barry's tail. It means nothing to a Siren – it's as inoffensive as a leg, for he cannot bear children and has never really thought to ask the logistics of merchildren, even though he has heard that it has something to do with seahorses – but Barry knows how deeply offensive it would be to a mer- or a selkie and reacts with according affront: he slaps the stone once, making the sailor jump. "Right, sorry," the sailor says, flushing, and it makes Barry feel better.

 _How do_ you _have children?_ he wants to ask, glancing pointedly at the sailor's midline.

"No merchildren," the sailor finishes, clearing his throat. _No Siren children_ , Barry corrects, making a non-affirmative noise that evidently means _yes_ above water. "Amazing. Then – are you immortal?"

Barry grunts, nodding as he resumes his work on the ropes. _I am. They're not_.

"Are there other mermaids? Er – mermen?"

Barry huffs, almost a laugh. _Hundreds._ He nods once brusquely, cutting a hole in the net sufficient to shimmy out of. With careful movements, he manages just that, taking the knife from his teeth and exhaling in relief. He looks at the sailor, and then back out over the water, and then back at the sailor. _Time to go._

The sailor says, "Ah, right – I, too, have a family to go home to."

For a moment, the ache in Barry's chest is so intense he thinks he has plunged the knife through his own heart. But it is merely imaged pain, knife still in hand, the claws on his free hand digging into his own tail. "Do you have a family?" the sailor asks, and Barry's throat is so tight he could not speak even if he wanted to.

He doesn't respond, slipping into the water instead with big, shuffling movements until he is partially submerged, plunging deeper the second he can. Resurfacing, he stares at the sailor, still seated on the shore, and waits for him to go. The eels, he notices, are nowhere to be found. It does not make the pain go away. "Do you have friends?" the sailor tries, and it would be easy to lie, to nod, to pretend there is a someone in the world who would miss him, but he can't bring himself to.

His hands clench on the knife and he hates how sad he feels, a gnawing, world-ending sorrow he has known for too long. He doesn't move, doesn't blink, but inaction is an answer, and the sailor knows it. The sailor stands; reflexively, Barry ducks underwater and sweeps back a pace, reemerging farther away. "If you ever get lonely," the sailor propositions, "I do have a fondness for the little cove down-shore. With the little green stones that wash in."

Barry cocks his head. _There are thousands of them_ , he thinks. _Who could ever want for a little green stone?_

But it also makes him feel a little lighter, because there _are_ thousands of them. Childishly grateful he doesn't have to share his blue ones, he nods once in understanding. Then, because he cannot bear the sailor's sympathetic stare, he ducks underwater until he is sure the man is gone. Knife in teeth, he drifts away from the shore, the shore which calls him no matter how far he goes, and idles in the imagination that there are hundreds of Sirens, and Siren-children, and a Siren language that can be spoken without killing all creatures above the sea.

It's a nice little daydream. He can imagine clumsy little Siren children with their tails not even half the size of his, laughing and singing without fear, chasing each other across these peaceful grey-blue waters. He sees little Siren children playing with dolphins, little Siren children who are welcomed by the Selkies and Merfolk, little Siren children who are permitted to engage with the Sailors and Shorelanders. Little Siren children who long to be cuddled, who ache with curiosity, who love to listen to Siren stories late at night.

Floating on his back offshore, Barry hums to himself and imagines Siren parents rearing their own little Sirens, in a world that isn't lonely but replete. The world wouldn't be as broad as it is now, for the little Siren children would have right to fear the great and unforgiving Dignitaries of the bigger seas, to respect the Sharks-in-Particular. The Whales would not bother them, but Whale song has been known to draw a Merchild or Selkid far, far away, dangerously distant from home, where exhaustion and the elements can conspire against such humble constitutions. In deep water, far too many dangers lurk for little Siren children. But even with the added dangers, the world would be full – full in ways it simply cannot be, alone.

Sighing, Barry turns on his stomach and sinks down into the ocean coolness which is warm in its ubiquity, and does not look for little Siren children, does not long for little Siren children, because there will never, ever be a Siren child.

There can only ever be one Siren, and that is how it has always been.

. o .

Throat painfully dry, Iris cradles a cup of tea between her hands, sitting on the windowsill in her room and looking out over the city, the sea.

Inevitably, her eyes settle on the shore, and she wonders about those little blue stones. Her attention drifts towards the small collection sitting on the dresser. Smiling, she thinks of adding to it, soon – perhaps even discerning the source of such a scarcely-hidden curiosity. A knock on the door draws her focus away from them. "Come in," she replies on the fourth knock.

With one hand, Wally opens the door, the other conspicuously to the top of his jacket, rather comically inflated near the top. Something wriggles inside, spoiling the secret, but he maintains his dignity as he says, "So. It has occurred to me that my dear sister, Heir Apparent, has tempted the ocean herself and won." A little fuzzy snout pops out of the collar and with a sigh, Wally says, "I have brought you a reward for your troubles."

He undoes the top buttons of his coat, revealing a sizeable grey puppy. "This is Daisy. She loves to bite." Putting her down on the floor, he adds, "Mom and Dad don't know she exists yet."

Daisy tramples towards Iris, claws clicking. Iris' smile broadens. Taking a seat on the floor, she welcomes Daisy into her arms, laughing at the wriggling puppy. "She's wonderful," Iris says, brushing a soft but already-hinting-at-wiry coat. "Where'd you find her?"

"The Raymonds, if you can believe it."

Iris raises an eyebrow. Daisy gnaws on her forefinger. "The Raymonds? What are they doing here this late in the year?"

"Apparently Caitlin's mother has come into ill health," Wally announces somberly. "They fear she may not make it the winter, and did not want to endanger her further with travel. I invited them to stay with us as long as they pleased," he adds with a shrug. "The pups were a surprise thank-you. I hope you can forgive that I only brought one of four."

Iris strokes Daisy's head and assures, "I can. When will they be joining us?"

"Tomorrow." Then, clearing his throat, he admits, "I am not fond of Ronnie's brother, but he assures me the man will be civil for his king. I respect his discretion."

"As it should be respected," Iris says, letting Daisy clamber over her knee. "That should help take some of the wrath out of Father's sails."

"Yes, he is rather furious," Wally admits, taking a seat on the bed. Rain dapples the windows, a gentle pattern arrhythmic with Daisy's clicking paws. "He'll come around. He worries terribly about you."

"What of you, and your gambling and horseback riding?"

"He has already resolved I am a lost cause," Wally replies, making her laugh. The simple gesture hurts, and she reaches back for her tea to take a calming sip. "I haven't had the opportunity to ask," he says with real solemnity, "are you all right?"

Iris shrugs. "I only nearly drowned."

Wally squints at the ceiling, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "You know, surprisingly, the 'only' doesn't negate how dangerous it was," he says at last. Daisy barks. Thumping his chest to cover the sound, Wally explains with a mock cough, "Blast this – terrible cold." With a wink at her, he adds in a clear voice, " _You_ can tell Father about her. I have done my part."

"Oh, _thank_ you, brother," Iris says with simpering grace, holding Daisy up to her chin and smiling. "You do know how to make me feel better. Thank you."

Wally bows and leads himself out.

Clasping the soft, warm puppy to her chin, surrounded by home, Iris can't help but feel immeasurably comforted by the peace of the scene. She loves the soft smell of pine in the air, even as the encroaching winter drives all but the hardiest ships away. Even those remainders will take caution in the coming months as they pit themselves against the elements.

And still she finds her gaze moving inevitably towards the window, and the great sea beyond, and feels only a longing for it.

Perhaps, she muses, as she lets Daisy down, the pup might find a stroll on the beach agreeable.

With a cup of tea at her side and a warm fire crackling in the hearth, she feels positively invulnerable, if headachy and sore. The ocean can't deter her _that_ easily.

 _Let it try_ , she challenges boldly, before hastening to grab the wandering heeler as it trots for the open door.

. o .

Far offshore, a Caecelia halts before a pair of eels. "My friends," she croons, "how was your talk?"

Neither eel responds at once. _Our newest Siren disappoints,_ Nep answers.

 _Deeply_ , Tune adds.

Allowing Tune to rest on her shoulder, the half-woman, half-octopus hums thoughtfully. "It hasn't been long since Eobard left this world," she permits. "Perhaps his successor needs time."

Shaking its head, Nep says, _He mingles with humans._

 _Every day he grows closer to them,_ Tune hisses in disgust.

The Caecelia smiles and drifts towards shore. "They have a curse," she muses. "'May you find what you are looking for.'"

Nep and Tune exchange a glance. _What are you saying?_ Nep asks.

"I'm saying, it's time to give the Siren what he wants."

 _What good will that do?_ Tune interjects, hurrying alongside her.

The Caecelia smiles. "It won't," she assures darkly. "It will destroy him."

Tune hisses. _I do love shattering spirits,_ it muses.

"Then you shall _love_ this," Lisa Snart replies, following the current shoreward.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter descends on Annapurna, bringing a wave of silence to the shore.

Barry drifts from one end of the coast to the opposite, a journey that takes nearly half a day, and finds no companions. The dolphins are gone – bound for warmer climes, and he takes a particular and almost vicious pleasure in filling his deerskin pouch with as many blue stones as he can find, invading their turf shamelessly – and there have been no passing dignitaries in some time.

Of course, the Orcas will be arriving any day now, and he knows they won't hesitate to take a bite out of him if he disturbs their march northward. He doesn't intend to give them the opportunity. Lacking the troubling need to feed, he can afford to hide in his cave indefinitely.

Retreating to it, he startles when a silk-smooth voice asks, "Have you such a fondness for trinkets?"

Cradling a rare purple stone to his chest, his pouch slung over one shoulder, he freezes for a moment, like a disobedient child caught in the act. Rallying himself – _I am no child_ – he turns to confront the newcomer and blinks dumbly in surprise. _What are you?_ "They are lovely," the half-woman, half-octopus says, nodding at the purple stone, "but I can see your heart. Those are not the true objects of your admiration."

He frowns. She can't – _no one_ knows about his interactions with the shorelander. No one, but he and the shorelander herself. Baring his teeth threateningly when the sea creature drifts closer, he draws his pouch up to his chest, prepared to defend it from thievery. She laughs, and says, "Your defensiveness is misplaced. I'm here to help." She smiles. Pointed teeth crowd her mouth. "Don't you _want_ my help?"

He shakes his head without breaking eye contact. Somehow, he knows even looking away will be dangerous. A deep chill works into his spine. She drifts closer still. Frozen, he doesn't respond when she reaches out with a tentacle and plucks the pouch from his chest. "I like to trade," she says, drawing the pouch to herself. "Give me something I want, and I'll give you something you want." Leaning in, she breathes into his ear, "Or do you not _want_ to walk the shore?"

His heart stops. Longing floods him. He knows he must look wide-eyed and childish but cannot bring himself to compose his features, to hide the intensity of his desire. "I'll give you a day," the sea creature says. "One free day." Shaking the stones, she smiles slyly. "These are pretty, but I'll expect something more … enticing, for a second day."

A second day. The mere notion makes him want to cry. Two days on the shore? He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but in sheer wonder. It's not – it can't be possible. He gave his life to becoming a Siren, he is _the_ Siren – what else would he be, but a traitor to his people, if he left the water? Sobered, he reins in the impulse. "Just a day," simpers the sea creature for which he has no name. "To see what it is _like_."

 _I know what it is like_ , he thinks, trying to content himself with childhood impressions. But they are faint, hazy memories of a time before, washed out over the years spent underwater. _I don't need more_ , he insists.

He thinks about finding the shorelander and feels a giddy, impulsive whim overtake him. _One day!_

Nodding, he points to the pouch, then skyward, attempting to convey that he will trade one for the other. She holds out a hand, and he takes it by the wrist in the fashion of the merfolk. Smiling in evident amusement, she pulls her arm back so they are clasping hands instead, squeezing it tightly.

Her eyes glow gold. Pressure builds on his chest, pressure that he has never known before. Without letting go, she elaborates, "You have until sundown tomorrow to return to the water, or this –" He inhales and water floods his chest, but unlike before it is strangling, painful, torturous, "will be your fate." With a single powerful shove, she disappears from his sight.

Barely able to see for the blackness crowding his vision, he scrambles reflexively towards the surface. There's too much water in his chest ( _how could there possibly be too much, water is air to him, he cannot overdrink his fill_ ). With a few clumsy kicks of his disintegrating paddle, he finds himself breaking the waves, expelling water with great, heaving coughs.

He's far from shore. Exhausted panic forces him to swim towards it – but the paddle is fracturing, disappearing, and with each propulsion forward he finds himself more off balance. Then he is controlling two paddles – long, spindly, useless things, and with a start he realizes that they're _legs_.

 _I'm a shorelander_ , he thinks, and for a moment is so dazzled he almost forgets his target, sinking below the waves and _staring_ –

But then the burn is back in his chest, and he kicks to shore, teeth chattering – soft, chiseled human teeth, none of the familiar sharp edges. He's barely able to move by the time the waves roll over his back in familiar tides. Heaving for breath – how can his chest still burn so intensely, he wonders, sinking below the surface for a gulp of water that only causes him to spasm in pain as fire erupts again – he struggles onward. He crawls up the beach, shaking fiercely and thinking through a delirious sort of panic, _To be human is to suffer_.

At last, unable to move another inch, he collapses, face against the stones that construct this whole shoreline. Breathing harshly, he feels the chill sink into him, a punishing, terrible chill that urges him back to the water, _the water is safe, the water is good, the water is warm_ but knowing it won't help him, now. It takes several attempts to lift himself partially upright, arms pushing his torso up first in the manner of seals. How the Siren Who Came Before him would condemn the absurd vulnerability he finds himself in, then, commander of the seas and helpless urchin on shore.

 _You can do this,_ he thinks, using his paddle – his feet, they're feet now, and how on _Earth_ does anyone _use_ these? – to try and push himself fully upright. He could drag himself across the shore, but he knows – he knows how to walk, remembers the seven-year-old boy as though from a dream, traipsing along the stony shoreline in search of parents that were never coming home again. It is that memory – faded but still present – that finally helps him work out the mechanics. Digging in at the knees, he climbs upright.

And promptly collapses, huffing in amusement as pain erupts across his legs. He has seen shorelanders walk many times; surely it is not _this_ inefficient? Breathing through his mouth – and the air is almost sharper than the water, is there no reprieve? – he levers himself upright again. This time, he stays on his feet, and he regards his new vantage point with wonder.

He's never been this tall before. The sea is flat, ubiquitous. It is deep, unfathomably deep, but one can only crest the waves so high before being hauled back downward. Standing on his own clumsy feet, he has more altitude than he can ever remember. It gives him a new, exhilarating perspective – he can see, just over the jagged grey rocks creeping up a now shallow slope, a pool of light beyond it. Lights. Countless numbers of golden points, spread across the landscape.

 _Shorelanders_ , he thinks, and desires suddenly and fiercely to be among them.

 _First you must walk_ , he thinks, and tries to remember _how_. It's not easy when the water doesn't lift him up. He falls onto the sharp stones and bruises, grunting in pain. Time is an elusive thing to a Siren, even a shored Siren, and he has no idea how much of it passes before, limbs shaking, he crests the top of the shallow hill separating him and the flat land leading into the shorelanders' homes.

 _Success_ , he thinks, lying flat on the – prickly, soft, wondrous carpet, what is this, it has a _name_ – and basking in the frozen air. He will – eyelids flickering, he resolves to rest for a few moments, to attempt a bolder approach in a moment. Just a moment. He has been swimming the shore all day, after all; it is only fair, only _reasonable_ that he takes a break. Even though something tugs urgently at his shoulders, he feels himself slipping into the darkness.

Then, barking loudly, something canters towards him. Alarmed, his eyelids fly open, and he struggles to sit upright as the creature – huge and furry and fearsome, galloping towards him on all fours, maybe _that_ is how? – crashes into him an instant later. "Baloo!" a shorelander shouts, and Barry flinches, trying to push the creature back, but his soft-tipped fingers, damn the lack of claws, only seem to encourage the beast to push against him, _licking_ his face, and he has never met such an indecent creature before, what kind of greeting is—

"Sorry, he's a bit of a—" The shorelander's voice halts abruptly. "Baloo," he says fiercely, and the creature – the Baloo – finally backs off. "What kind of a lunatic are you, out in the middle of the night with no clothes?" the man asks warily, patting the Baloo as it tramples back over to him.

Barry huffs a soft sound into the – prickly, dewy, _grass, it's called grass._ _I'm not a lunatic_ , he thinks. _I'm a Siren. Who has somehow become a man_. He strains upright, shaking his head. Slowly, the man approaches him, his shadow falling over Barry in the twilight. "You're _blue_ ," the man says. "Were you out on the water?"

Nodding, Barry flinches when he feels something heavy and hot drape over his back. _No more nets_ , he thinks, trying to shrug it off, but it's comfortable, and he realizes it's one of the – fur-skins that the shorelanders wear. The man hooks a hand under his shoulder and hauls him upright without strife. Amazing. "Wouldn't be very hospitable to let a sailor suffer," the man admits. "Can't give you my breeches, so maybe you could tie that around—?" he gestures at Barry's midline. Barry frowns, obediently looping the – fur-skin around his navel so it covers a solid portion of his new legs. Maybe legs are embarrassing to shorelanders?

He's not entirely surprised. Legs are tragically fragile and underwhelming in the mobility department. It must be offensive to bear witness to them. _You've only had them for a few moments,_ he chides himself. _You did this before_. And so he did. For seven years, he _was_ a human – he knows these things. Should know these things. Still, it's been nearly twenty since those days – he can be forgiven for not knowing exactly what passes for proper anymore.

Heart pounding, he realizes for the first time that he's _standing_ , interacting with a shorelander, even if the shorelander thinks he is some kind of – sailor-lunatic, whatever that combination entails. The Baloo barks loudly and the man says, "All right, all right, let's go." He starts walking. Barry tries to follow and promptly falls over.

With great spirit, the Baloo turns around and tramples towards him, throwing itself at him. "Baloo!" the man says sharply. "Leave him be, you damn dog!"

 _Dog_ , Barry thinks, and absentmindedly reaches out a declawed hand to brush its fur. It's very thick and very warm. _Interesting._

It's all coming back to him – this time, when the man helps him up, he keeps an arm around Barry's bare shoulders. It's incredibly impolite – no merfolk would ever tolerate it, and Selkies will kill you for less offense – but he tolerates it because it is excruciatingly cold without the comfort of the water, and with the man's aid, he can walk without falling. "Must be half-frozen," the man muses. "You're certainly bluish enough."

He nods vaguely, because half-frozen seems about right, even if his gleied complexion is natural. _Is it?_ he wonders, and doesn't have time to wonder long as the sun sinks and darkness covers the world. What a magnificent night to be above the waves! He thinks, a thrill of excitement surging through him even as his teeth chatter continuously. What an unimaginable adventure!

He thinks of how envious the merfolk would be of him, treading – however hesitantly, however clumsily – on shore. How jealously even the Selkies, capable of beaching, would watch him if they could see him so far from the ocean. His chest swells with appreciation – he wants to laugh, to sing, to tackle the shorelander so he might impress the sheer absurdity of it all.

 _Look at my hands!_ he wants to sing. _Look at my legs! Look at what I can do!_

He wants to go into town, wants to wander the streets and interact with everything he finds, but the man diverts their course to a small wooden house nearby. "Not the prettiest, but it beats the grass," the man announces. Baloo paws at the door, barking. A second shorelander appears in the doorway to let Baloo inside, and Barry and the first man follow him. The second man laughs at the sight of Barry.

In undisguised wonder, Barry stares sat the shorelanders' home, marveling at the simple invitation. _An invitation!_ He almost can't fathom it – being _invited_ into someone's home, their most treasured space. He aches to explore it all, to put his hands on everything, to know the texture and heft of every item, to understand what it is like to _live_ this way, every day. There's so much to look at, so much to take in – but the second man is gazing rather distractedly at him, inquiring of the first man, "Where'd you find him?"

The first man shrugs. "Baloo found him," he explains. Untroubled by the attention, Baloo settles in front of a fire. Barry aches to join it, but knows he'll tumble face-first into the floorboards if he does, and as eager as he is to explore the space, he's not eager for any more bruises. "Took off like a bloodhound, wouldn't come back."

"Well, it's lucky you were there," the second man says, retrieving a different, longer fur-skin from an adjacent, much smaller room. "Here," he offers, holding it out to Barry.

Threading his fingers through the – _blanket, it's a blanket_ – carefully, Barry shivers. He brings it around his shoulders, cloaking himself in it, exhaling at the warmth. This is wonderful. Of course the shorelanders would have found a way to make even the air above the ocean pleasant.

Nodding once in appreciation, he holds out a hand to shake, startling when the man grasps it in the manner of the strange sea creature which granted him his legs. _A lesson_ , he realizes, a surge of affection coursing through him at the simple courtesy. "I'm Rob," the man introduces. "You've already met David," he adds, nodding at the first man, who crouches to put another log on the fire with a huff. "Whereabouts are you from?" he asks conversationally, releasing Barry's hand.

Shrugging ineloquently, Barry averts his gaze to the wall, hoping to indicate through his silence that he has no idea how to begin to respond to that question. _I'm from this place,_ he thinks, and it whispers in his memory, _Annapurna_. _But I belong to the sea._

"Can you speak?" the second man asks.

Barry makes a noncommittal sound in his throat. He tugs the blanket a little tighter around himself, afraid that his standoffishness will drive the shorelanders away. Or, rather, drive him from their home.

Instead, amicably, the second man clasps his shoulder and invites him farther into the space, gesturing for him to sit on a chair near the fire. Closing his eyes, Barry can pretend he's underwater, back to the pebbly cave wall, until the fire crackles loudly and his eyes snap open. He recognizes that sound – wood breaking, screaming, sailors hitting the water – and looks around for the ship on the water that needs him, but there's no one there.

Relaxing back into the chair, he looks at the first man speaking with the second and realizes after a long moment that he recognizes Rob. There was fire and darkness and nearly a dozen bodies to fish out of the water, but, casting back in his memory, he sees himself grabbing a man with a face like Rob's. Even more clearly, he recalls the feeling of the big white splashing creature paddling past him while he stayed behind to haul more sailors from the sea.

If Rob recognizes him, he's doing a great job of hiding it, Barry thinks, watching him converse with the man named David. But even shielded in apparent obscurity, Barry feels uneasy. Hospitality can fade all too quickly, and even without the claws, the pointed teeth, the unmistakably inhuman tail, he worries that his bluish complexion will give it away. He rises unsteadily, leaving the fur-skin behind. For good measure – he can't stay, he can't risk it – he removes the second fur-skin. He's not a thief.

Rob barks a laugh, and David says in a deeply reproachful manner, "Have some _decency_." Abashed, Barry replaces the second fur-skin, weighing the merits of taking it without explanation and leaving it behind to David's displeasure.

"I'll get you some real clothes," Rob says, disappearing.

David glares at him, and he keeps his gaze on his bare feet. His bare feet. He smiles a little in spite of himself. Amazing.

"You're a curious one, you are," Rob announces, handing him a pile of fur-skins, and Barry makes another vague sound, _I don't know how to answer that,_ before cautiously removing the other fur-skin. He's surprised how quickly he grasps the difficulty of putting on the fur-skins in the right order, like a memory, and suddenly it makes sense again, _shorelanders are always fur-skinned among other shorelanders_. He doesn't remember exactly why, other than the deep affront in David's voice when he broke the rule, but that is sufficient motivation to accept it at face value. There are plenty of Mer-customs that evade his understanding, and even more Selkie traditions he doesn't fully grasp.

It's only fitting, he muses, that shorelanders would have rituals he doesn't know. _But I can learn_ , he thinks giddily, because they think he's one of them, he can _learn._

He wants to ask about it so badly he almost speaks, almost points to the first item his gaze falls on and begs, _What is this? Why is it called that? What does it do? Can I hold it?_

Smoothing his hands down the fur-skins, he makes a guttural sound in his chest, a growl that Selkies use to express pleasure, except when they do it it's a lovely rumble, like a _purr_. His equivalency is evidently imperfect, because Rob says in some concern, "Are you all right?"

Silencing, he nods, face flushing. Good. He'll look more human in red than blue.

"A curious one," Rob repeats. "We'll get you to port tomorrow, find out where you washed up from."

Barry tugs at the fur-skins and looks at Rob's face, but not at his eyes – it's deeply offensive to look into a Selkies' eyes, and he doesn't fully understand the shorelanders' policy, but it seems to appease Rob when he nods. What a strange name. _Rob_. Sounds like a piece of a ship, or a shallow summer wave, something belonging to the water. David – sinks like a stone. Heavy. Stern.

Baloo. He laughs a little. Definitely a gull, crying out overhead. Something loud and brilliant.

 _Tell me everything_ , he thinks, suddenly needing to know because he only has so much _time_ , so _little_ time. _Tell me everything_.

But there's a heaviness in his chest, a heaviness like sleep, and he tries to communicate through vague hand gestures that he, like Baloo, is quite comfortable on the floor. Rob says, "I'll get you a pillow." Barry's curiosity about a pillow lasts long enough to wait for Rob to retrieve it, and he hugs it to his chest, warmed at the thought that shorelanders just – have these. For comfort, for their softness.

The ocean, in all her gentleness, does not make pillows. It is a unique luxury.

Lying down on the floor right next to the floor and the dog, he rests his head on the hard wood, and falls asleep hugging the pillow to his chest.

His last dreamy thought is simple: _I must know everything_.

. o .

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," Iris says, hugging Eddie, Duke of Chomolungma.

He huffs a laugh into her hair, sweet and warm. "I had the same fear," he admits, smiling at her brightly, all regaled in rain-dappled greens, when she steps back to look at him properly. "Our carriage came into some trouble, but we couldn't spend another day away from this dear place, could we, Jesse?"

A woman, accompanying him and passing off the reigns to a pair of stable-hands, smiles. "Absolutely not."

"She is truly remarkable," Eddie adds, "fixed us up in scarcely an hour."

Jesse curtseys. "To reunite a Duke and a Princess is a Lady's most cherished honor," she teases.

Eddie laughs affectionately. "You make it sound as though we are to be married," he says.

Jesse just smiles a little. "Are you not?"

Eddie clears his throat, blushing, and Iris cocks her head at him. "Are we?" she challenges lightly.

"I cannot _wait_ to see your father again," Eddie detracts, stepping around her to walk down the cobbled path leading up to the castle. "Come, Jesse! Let us give the king our respects!"

Jesse smiles at Iris, winking before retreating after Eddie, and it occurs to Iris that, from all exterior appearances, Eddie and she have been engaged in a long courtship.

 _There are worse prospects_ , she muses. Yet she knows that such a step would destroy their relationship. Theirs is a perfect courtship – but it would be an unhappy marriage. He loves the royal life, and she loves the sea. _We would not be happy_ , she dismisses, following them inside at a leisurely pace. _I will not hurt him with my inattention._

No matter what, she will assume the crown after her parents – and she needs no husband to achieve it.


	6. Chapter 6

_The ocean adopts Barry._

 _No one else will. Selkies chase him off, merfolk threaten him, sharks try to take a bite out of him, and all manner of sea creature, great and small, avoid contact with him, the ultimate anathema, the irresistible killer. To the seven-year-old boy, his universal and unearned exile doesn't make sense. Without a history, with barely an identity to cling to, he doesn't understand why he isn't welcome in any of the myriad undersea societies. Even the maternal whales shun him; the playful dolphins attack him like the meanest sort of shark._

 _Eventually, he finds out why they keep their distance. In despair, he falls into the company of a single manta ray, as long as he is and longer still with that massive barbed tail. The manta ray never speaks to him, but it tolerates his company, and for a desperately lonely shorelander swallowed by the sea, it's the most Barry can hope for. He trails the manta ray for days, weeks, months, years, asking questions it never answers, and at first he doesn't realizes how subtly, insidiously, and perfectly he pins their fates together simply by speaking to it. The manta ray always seems to lead, and he to follow, but when he grows weary of his silent companion, heart-aching and heavy, he says simply, "I'll leave you now."_

 _And the manta ray says the first and last thing it will ever say to him:_ I can't leave you, Siren.

Eyes opening, Barry stares at the dark wooden floor in front of his face and exhales slowly.

He still remembers the mix of dread, surprise, frustration, and anger, that struck him when he realized he had ensnared the manta ray with his voice. The curse explained why the manta ray had never tried to kill him. It couldn't, even though it must have entertained the idea at some moment prior to his first words.

( _"I simply wish for a friend."_ )

After that day, Barry never spoke again. At the time, he was maybe eleven years old.

In the Siren's eternal way of being, time doesn't pass the way it does for shorelanders or any of the sea societies. An entity outside of all communities, he wants for no meterstick to measure his progress from day-to-day. If any, he goes out of his way to make them blend together, to not think about all of the years of crushing loneliness.

 _Till sundown_ , he thinks, recalling the woman-who-gave-him-this-power's words. Releasing the pillow in his grasp, he sits up slowly. It's still awkward to do so without the buoyant water to support him, but he manages it with greater ease than before, those first humbling moments on the shore. Even standing comes more naturally to him, and a familiar ache begins to build in his chest as he looks around the shorelanders' home and knows he can taste their air and walk like they do, but he will never again live like them.

Furious tears stinging his eyes, he reaches up to tear at the fur-skins, but his dull fingernails don't have the same impact his Siren claws would, and he only manages to muss up the material rather than shred it. _You'll never be human_ , he thinks. It's still dark outside, and the rest of the space is quiet; he suspects the shorelanders are still asleep. Baloo is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he is with them, more welcomed than Barry will ever be, despite their greater differences. _You're a monster_ , he reminds himself.

He staggers over to the door and pries it open. With great urgency, he throws himself outside, moving reflexively over the uneven turf, stumbling at first before finding a rhythm. He doesn't slow, pushing himself until he is not merely walking but _running_ , tearing across the landscape.

As he runs far, far from the shorelanders' humble society, euphoria floods him. The breathless ease of it takes his breath away, filling him with joy. This, _this_ is why shorelanders stay on land.

In the water, he's always surrounded, always at the ocean's mercy, always subject to its superiority. But here, on land, he's _free_. The rush of power, the utter control, the mastery of himself and his environment – it's beyond fantastic, it's _addictive_. Consumed by the sensation, all fear of losing it vanishes.

Inspired, he runs to the shore, navigating stones he could barely crawl over mere hours before, cantering into the water and kicking up huge sprays of water as he comes to a halt. It's breathtakingly cold, but it's also home to him, the one thing that has always stood by him. Heart pounding, he gazes out across the water as the golden sun rises at the horizon, and remembers the Siren Who Came Before Him, and his prophetic words.

 _The ocean will love you even when no one else does_.

It was the loneliest and kindest thing he ever said to Barry.

In anguish, in joy, Barry opens his mouth and howls, giving voice to ten thousand things he never said.

Like running, it frees him, even when it tapers into silence. The release slows his pounding heart, and makes his steady legs tremble, until he is kneeling in the water, humbled and helplessly enamored by it all, because he _wants_ so much to be home he doesn't know how to verbalize it anymore.

But then he hears movement nearby, and he turns reflexively to face the shorelander.

. o .

Iris stares at the man kneeling in the water.

Acquired caution regarding the unknown prompts her to keep her distance, but instinct tells her she has nothing to fear, so she ventures forth without hesitation, shoulders back, head up. He stares at her, unblinking, brilliant sea-green eyes gazing into her soul. Even though it's bitter out, he doesn't rise from the water lapping at his breeches. He simply stares at her, mouth slowly dropping open. Halting ten feet away, she says, "I know you." It instantly becomes true, and in astonishment she repeats, "I _know_ you."

He struggles to his feet, collapsing before he stands. She steps forward to help him, but he's already righting himself before she can reach for him. She retreats again, keeping a slight distance between them. Sizing him up. Her gaze drifts involuntarily to his hands, and she sees soft human fingernails where sharp little claws should be. Something in her stomach sinks in disappointment, and she chides herself for insanity, because of course he has human fingernails.

"You remind me of someone," she says at last, because he won't fill the silence and someone must, she can't stand his ocean green eyes on her without offering _something_ , an irrational urge to fish the blue stone out of her pouch nearly overwhelming her. His gaze drifts to her pouch, further cementing her irrational urge, _I know you_ , but he lifts his eyes without elaborating, meeting hers. "Who are you?"

He swallows, reaching up to hold his throat, and she realizes after a beat that he's – he _can't_ speak. Oh. "Sorry. I didn't –"

He flicks a hand in a dismissive motion, shying back a step before looking down at the pouch again, up at her face, then at the pouch again, before directing his gaze out at the water.

She reaches into the pouch, producing the cerulean stone she only half-intended to throw, because someday her madness must end and she must accept that ocean currents alone returned it to her, nothing more. Turning it over in her hand, she casts it out to sea, knowing how foolish she must appear to this stranger as she waits for it to return. Still, she holds her breath, waiting – waiting for the impossible.

He shuffles nearby, and steps into the water. "No," she says, "don't." He halts immediately, before letting out the tiniest little huff, more a breath of air than a sound, and wading out further, knee-deep. "You'll freeze," she warns him, and he lets out another huff – more of a laugh than anything, before slinking into the surf with a confidence born of familiarity.

She waits for him to surface, anxiety growing as five seconds pass – ten, fifteen, twenty. Half a minute. Three-quarters. One minute. She's wading in, memory conjuring a thirteenth man struggling energetically with his would-be rescuers before plunging beneath the surface, and she feels a sudden compulsion not to let him drown. She shivers and has to force each breath as she gets calf-deep, knee-deep.

She is starting to feel frantic when, all at once, with almost seal-like playfulness he appears right in front of her, eyes dancing, holding the blue stone in between his teeth, shaking and breathing hard. This close, she can't escape her own intuition, the sense-memory of the would-be last moments of her life insisting on being acknowledged.

He seems startled by their proximity, breathing shallowly, still holding the stone in his teeth, more animal than human. It's then that she realizes the implications of being in his turf, _his_ turf, without knowing a thing about him. _He saved my life_ , she thinks, but – no. No, he couldn't have. That mythical other, the dolphin she fashioned into a person in her mind, was responsible for saving her life.

He's a stranger. A fearless, foolhardy, and potentially very, very dangerous stranger.

He reaches up for the stone in his teeth, and slowly holds it out to her, but she just stares at him, at what he can and cannot be, _no human could survive that, how could he be—?_ "T-tell me," she whispers. "Was it you?" He tenses, still holding the stone out, looking up at her like _she_ is mythical, and she insists with iron in her voice, "I need you to t-tell m-me."

In response, he reaches out – slowly, trembling, letting her flee but she can't, she _has_ to know – and resting his hands on her sides.

It would mean nothing, if she couldn't feel his fingertips pressing exactly overtop the phantom impressions of claws.

Her breath leaves her all at once, and she has to pull back, has to scramble back to shore, suddenly frantic, and he doesn't follow her, sinking low in the water, apologetic and still. He has to be freezing, potentially to death, but she isn't forcing him there, any more than she forced him to be the creature of her imagination, and how could he know unless he –

On shore, she crosses her arms over her chest, preserving warmth, and turns back to him. He's still out in the water, watching her without judgment, without expectation, a baleful sort of sadness drowning in his expression. He's barely above the water, his breath stirring it, looking like he wants to be anywhere but there.

Slowly, he drifts closer, and she steps back. He halts immediately, blue stone still caught between his teeth. She stares at it, at everything it means, a dream actualized, and he starts wading closer again, but she holds her ground this time. When he reaches the shallows, he crawls, dragging himself out of the water. Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet, crashing back down twice before pulling it off. He reaches up between his teeth and plucks the stone, holding it out to her. His cheeks turn pink, and she sees him rub the stone between thumb and forefinger like he wants to clean it, before he simply holds it out to her.

She closes her hand over it, slowly, holding his hand, feeling flat human nails where sharp little claws should be.

And still she knows it's him.

"Oh my God," is all she can say.

. o .

"So, what – are you?"

Standing in a secluded room with the shorelander, Barry looks up from underneath the towel she gave him, lifting one eyebrow. Cocking his head, he reaches up one hand to hold his throat again, and she makes a sympathetic noise. "Are you a merman?" He huffs, resuming his energetic ruffling of his hair with the towel. "Is that a yes or a no?" He lowers the towel long enough to clearly shake his head no before resuming his ruffle pattern. It's extremely pleasant. "Can you give me a hint?"

He makes a noncommittal sound, continuing to rub his head with the towel. Pillows, towels, fur-skins – shorelanders have luxuries that would make even the legendary Manatee jealous. She sets a hand on his arm and he stills, towel covering his face, hands sinking passively to his sides. In the short interlude that he's been a human, he's been touched more by shorelanders than anything of the sea in nearly twenty years. It makes something hot burn in his chest, an emotion like sadness welling up to the surface.

 _One day_ , he thinks, and tries not to want more.

She reaches up, slowly, and tugs the towel off his face, looking at him seriously. "Do you have a name?" she asks.

He nods once, slowly. _I did._ Does it count if you're the only one who knows it? If you are the only creature alive who knows the name of your own soul, does it still matter?

Setting the towel aside, she reaches up again. He stops breathing altogether when she frames his face with her hands. "I owe you my life," she tells him seriously. He shakes his head slowly, still in her hands. He has never wanted to be repaid for his actions – his contact with shorelanders is fleeting, indirect, a phantom presence doing as much good as he can without ever being seen. _I got caught_ , he thinks, but it is without regret, because being caught by her is worth it. She insists, "I owe you my life."

He makes a low sound of denial, not daring to form the simple word: _No._ Shaking his head again firmly, he reaches up with a trembling hand to hold one of hers to his face. If there is only one thing he knows about shorelanders, it is that they communicate through touch as much as words. And he has no words – none that he dares speak. _You owe me nothing_ , he says without saying, holding her gaze and squeezing her hand before lowering it. She lowers her hands at the same time, message communicated, and he smiles a little before reaching for his towel again.

Resuming his ruffling, he tries to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling in his chest, but it refuses to leave.

He can't say he dislikes it. It can stay for as long as it likes – he'll stay as long as she'll let him.

. o .

Iris expected a more inconveniencing journey back to the castle, half-frozen as they both were.

In the end, ushered along by the early morning sunshine, they made swift progress, sneaking through the foyer unnoticed. The stranger's – her savior's – gaze drifted around the room, and she had to tug on his soaked sleeve to get him to follow her when he stopped in the middle of the room to look at it all. He looked down at the contact, but he didn't pull away, placing his hand over hers instead, holding it there.

She wasn't sure she knew exactly what he was saying, but she hoped she was right as she kept her hold and led him down the halls, praying they wouldn't be caught. Wally wouldn't be a problem, but she couldn't say the same for her parents, who would doubtless have questions about this unlikely suitor, soaked to the skin and a little wild around the edges.

They slipped into a side room with spare towels, and she locked the door behind them before fetching him one, passing it to him. He just held it in his hands, looking up at her wonderingly, and she finally pulled down a towel for herself and demonstratively rubbed it down her arms. He mimicked her obediently, looking pleased with himself. After visually explaining how to use it, she had watched in amusement as he used it to ruffle his hair, carrying on far past necessity, simply enjoying it.

It was remarkable, knowing that he was – something else, some human-like creature from the deep. Questions burned in her chest, but he was evasive, making only the occasional unreadable grunt or silently shaking his head. He'd already conveyed that he couldn't speak, but she still stumbled down avenues that required speech: _what are you? What's your name?_

Sitting on a chair nearby, she cups her head in her chin and considers yes-no questions he _can_ answer. "Can you breathe underwater?" she asks idly. He makes another noncommittal noise. _Helpful_ , she muses, surprised that it didn't elicit a yes-no response. She fishes, asking, "Do you live in the ocean?" Another uninterpretable grunt. "Can you answer any of my questions?" she teases.

He looks up from the towel and smiles. He nods once.

"Are there others like you?" she asks curiously.

His expression is pure devastation, and he kneads the towel in his hands for several moments. He doesn't make a sound. "Are you alone?" she rephrases quietly.

He doesn't move, chest stilling, and she doesn't need to confirm the answer aloud.

 _Yes._

Heart aching, she pushes off of the chair, but he shakes his head, first slowly, then frantically, reaching up to knit his hands in his hair. It's a little wild, just like him, and she reaches for him, grasping his hand and saying simply, "You don't have to be alone anymore."

He shakes his head, no, no, no, and she feels him pulling back, the creature in the water once again, and wants to reel him in, to assure him that it's true, that she won't hurt him, none of them will, he's as human as human can be ( _except when he is not – when is he not?_ ). He looks her right in the eye and mouths a single phrase. She doesn't understand immediately. He repeats it, without breath, without sound, and then it clicks.

 _I have to be alone._

A single unanswerable question burns inside of her. "Why?" she whispers.

He pulls back. She lets him go. With a smile like he has a bad taste in his mouth, he reaches up with a hand and holds it to his throat.

The message is clear.

 _I can't say._


	7. Chapter 7

"Princess Iris? Won't you join us for breakfast?"

Barry frowns at the shorelander uncomprehendingly. _There's a princess here?_ he asks with upraised eyebrows. He drops the towel in surprise when, right outside the door, the same voice asks, "Princess Iris? Whatever are you doing—"

"I'll be just a moment," the shorelander responds hastily.

It clicks. Oh. _Oh_. Barry looks at the Princess – Princess Iris – with newfound wonder. And a touch of horror. _Oh, Gods be good, she's royal._

Now, not only has he disobeyed the first and foremost rule of interacting with shorelanders – _do not_ – he has failed to observe the proper courtesies to a royal. He flushes. _I'm sorry. I didn't know._ Berating himself, he lowers his head. _I should have known_.

Without warning, Princess Iris strides towards the door and Barry steps back to let her. Unfortunately, he stumbles over his feet, knocking a pot free from a shelf nearby. It shatters on the floor. The din is horrendous. The woman outside the room asks in alarm, "What was that?"

"Just, ah—" Princess Iris flounders, steadying Barry with a hand on his arm. "Stumbled," she says, not untruthfully.

"Let me in," the woman outside the room insists. "I don't want you to come to harm—"

"I'm perfectly all right," Princess Iris huffs, tugging on Barry's still-soaked jacket, straightening it. She whispers to him, and him alone, "Just – follow me, all right?"

In wonder, he nods once. He can follow. Following is easy. Still a little shaky on his feet but readjusting, he trails after her as she steps up to the door and opens it. Immediately outside, arms folded across her chest, stands another woman. She blinks once, slowly. With great dignity, Princess Iris says, "We were just enjoying the sunrise."

A beat of silence follows. "I had no idea you had caught yourself a suitor," the woman observes slyly, extending a hand towards them. Barry waits for Princess Iris to take it. "I'm Jesse Quick," she adds.

Iris nudges his side with an elbow. Reflexively, Barry nudges her back. The second woman laughs. "He's not from here," Princess Iris intercedes, and Barry senses a haste belying course adjustment. _Have I done something wrong?_ he wonders, and knows it is true but not in what way. "You'll have to forgive his – courtesies." She reaches for his hand and he tenses, but she simply holds it out and the other woman – Jesse Quick – takes it.

"Does he speak?" Jesse Quick asks teasingly, shaking his hand.

Barry automatically lifts his free hand to his throat. "Not much," Princess Iris fills in. "But we have - known each other for quite some time." Barry retracts his hand from the other woman's grip, afraid that she can feel the little tipped claws on his fingers. They're not there – just flat, human nails. _Till sundown._ "We became separated over the years," she adds smoothly.

Barry blinks. _I must have missed that._ Wondering how he could have possibly forgotten Princess Iris, he berates himself, _She must think I'm a fool. I can't even remember our previous encounters._

Unaware of his inner turmoil, the other woman asks in the same sly tone: "Really? And how did you two meet?"

Princess Iris intertwines her arm with Barry's. Barry's heart stops for a moment, then resumes at a much faster pace. "As children do, by accident," she supplies. Clearing her throat, she says with more haste than is due, "Are we to stand here and talk, or dine?"

Jesse Quick smiles mischievously. "Dine, of course," she says, turning away from them. "Come, I'm sure everyone will want to meet our newest houseguest." She strides down the hall three paces before turning around to face them again. "What is your name?" she asks him.

Barry shrugs. Princess Iris says simply, "Henry."

"Henry," Jesse Quick repeats.

"Henry Garrick," the Princess finishes, squeezing his arm.

A wonder like warmth unspools in his chest. _A new name_ , he muses, and finds himself inexplicably moved by it. "It's lovely to meet you, Henry," Jesse Quick says. "Come, come. Let us dine." And then she walks away again, leading the way down the hall.

Barry expects Princess Iris to release him, but she merely holds onto his arm, as though fearful he might drift away and cause trouble. _I won't cause any trouble,_ he promises, following her down the hall. His bare feet do not make a sound. Princess Iris's make rather a more musical note with each step, click, click, click. _Amazing_ , he muses, suppressing his inquiries as she leads him along.

* * *

"Henry Garrick." The Duke of Chomolungma smiles and grips his hand firmly. "What a pleasure it is to have company."

"He looks like a street urchin," another man huffs nearby. Releasing Eddie Thawne's hand, Barry's turns to find the second man, hunched over a table. A mug rests between his hands. "No shoes," he declares, nodding at Barry's feet. Barry tucks his toes underneath them self-consciously. _Don't let my claws show._

"We were at the water," the Princess intercedes. "Even you must understand that."

"You'll have to forgive my cousin," a third man states, stepping into the room. "Oliver did not inherit the richly virtue of common decency." Like Eddie Thawne, he approaches Barry and extends a hand. Thoroughly practiced, Barry takes it and shakes it almost hard enough to hurt. "I'm Ronnie Raymond."

Barry taps his throat with his free hand. Princess Iris prompts, "This is Henry Garrick. He doesn't talk much."

"Ah. A pity," Ronnie says, and Barry cocks his head to one side. "But, well, let that not hold you back," he adds bracingly, slapping Barry's shoulder. It startles a little grunt from him. Shorelanders are – enthusiastic, to say the least. The thought of approaching a Selkie with the same candid demeanor makes him smile a little. "Where are you from? Haven't seen you around town before."

"An interrogation before breakfast?" Princess Iris interrupts, taking Barry's arm again. He likes the way it feels, warm and companionable. _This is nice_ , he thinks, eager to stay at her side for as long as she'll have him. Hopefully forever.

"He was probably swept in from sea," the second man, Oliver, says shortly.

Barry nods. It's close enough to the truth.

The third man doesn't see Barry nod, but he does turn to face the seated one. "Just because you were washed in from an island doesn't mean this poor man was," Ronnie corrects. "You'll have to forgive him; he's always been a bit of a brute," he adds to Barry.

Barry looks at the second man with greater interest. _Brute?_ His gaze drifts down to Oliver's hands, but, no – flat nails. _Hm._ Curiosity duly piqued, he can't help but think that Oliver resembles a male Selkie. It would certainly explain the short temper. He flushes with embarrassment at the thought of behaving so foolishly around a creature of such formidable renown. Determined to make it right, he disentangles himself from Princess Iris' grasp and steps up to the Selkie.

He extends a hand and the Selkie reaches for his wrist, clasping it with bruising force. Barry's breath shallows. Oliver's eyes narrow as he stares at Barry, unblinking. The urge to ask about Oliver's true nature nearly overpowers Barry. It is only when the man twists his arm ever-so-slightly on the release, mistakable for a shake to the incurious, that Barry grasps the enormity of the silent confession. _I am what you think._ Barry takes a step back, stunned by the frigidity in Oliver's blue-eyed gaze. _How,_ Oliver seems to ask, _do you know what I am?_

Barry's heart beats fast. He aches to say something, anything, to allay the Selkie's suspicions. _I come in peace,_ he thinks, chancing a smile.

The Selkie's glare darkens. He rises from the table and says in a low tone, "You should leave. You are not welcome."

"My dear cousin, have you lost all manners?" Ronnie chides, but Barry can't look away from Oliver. "Do not take his words to heart—"

"There is a darkness in his soul," Oliver cuts off sharply, and for a moment Barry is struck by how closely he walks the line between hiding and revealing himself. Selkies, like Merfolk, are not above interacting with shorelanders. But most respect the distance between their species. Every child is told the same story: _if they know you exist, they will want to take you away from us, for their curiosity is insatiable._

It's a bold move, risking revealing himself simply to warn off – Barry chances a little smile, feeling sly himself, because his teeth are still flat, his claws nonexistent. What can this Selkie prove? "A darkness in his soul," scoffs Eddie, clasping a hand on Barry's shoulder. "You sound like a witch. Just because he is uncouth does not mean he is dangerous."

Something sours in Barry's stomach at the reminder, because – _I am dangerous_. He wants to shy away, to shake his head, because – the Selkie is right. Humbled, he bows his head. The Selkie does not take a seat, but Barry steps back. Princess Iris says firmly, "He is my friend, and my guest, Mr. Queen. As are you. Tread lightly."

And that closes the matter, for Jesse arrives a moment later with a tray emitting a positively tantalizing smell in the air, announcing, "I leave for five minutes and you are at each other's throats?"

* * *

Despite the warmth of the meal, Oliver's glare will not be deterred as he regards – "Henry."

They haven't stopped staring each other down, even though Ronnie and Eddie engage in spirited conversation with Jesse, who flits in and out of the room, teasing that Wally has not yet deigned to rise for the morning.

"Nor Caitlin," Ronnie muses fondly, although there's a furrow between his brow. Iris understands it; Caitlin's mother has taken ill, and her daughter's presence seems to be the only thing that helps allay the pain, if not remove it. "I should go check on her," he adds apologetically, stepping aside.

Jesse and Eddie have plenty of stories to share, and Iris loses herself in their conversation even as she finally nudges Henry's foot. He startles so violently he nearly tips out of his seat. Flushing, he does not meet Oliver's gaze, even though Oliver continues to stare at him sternly. "Oliver," she says at last in a low tone.

"Might we speak in private?" he says, looking at her. Henry tenses beside her, but Iris looks at Oliver and sees – something deeply unsettling, like _fear_ , there. She nods once, rising. Henry struggles to stand, but Iris lays a hand on his shoulder and shakes her head. He stays.

"Fear not, she'll return," Eddie says bracingly, passing Henry a slice of bread.

He holds it up to his nose and sniffs deeply in appreciation before setting it down. "Had your fill already, have you?" Eddie muses.

Henry shrugs, taking it again and sniffing it. Then he proffers it back to Eddie.

Iris sighs, more amused than exasperated, and follows Oliver, stalking away from the table at a brisk pace. He's always so _broody_ , serious and foreboding, but he's also the most brilliant tactician she has ever met. His intuition is absolutely perfect: he has never once led the Wests astray in his warnings.

For all his moodiness, Oliver Queen is an invaluable companion.

He stalks far out down the hall until he is certain they are out of earshot before turning to her. Pausing, she folds her arms over her chest for warmth. "What's gotten into you?" she challenges.

"You need to send him away," Oliver says bluntly.

A shiver walks down Iris' back. His tone is not requesting; it's begging. He takes her hands, repeating firmly, "You _need_ to send him away. He has the worst intentions. A murderous heart. A thief's soul."

"You barely know him," Iris says warily, withdrawing her hands.

Oliver does not blink. It's rather eerie, how long he can hold a stare. "Have I ever led you astray?" he asks quietly. Iris cannot answer truthfully, so she does not answer at all. "Princess, if you wish a long, happy life, you will heed my warning now and end this unhappy affair. He is _dangerous_."

"Have you met him before?" Iris challenges, because it's impossible to reconcile the creature in the water with the man sniffing an orange with great interest back at the table, to Ronnie and Eddie's amused laughter. "I trust your judgment, Sir Oliver, but I find it hasty on this occasion. He saved my life," she dares to confide.

He frowns, looking more disconcerted than ever. He entreats, "I beg of you. Heed me. On this occasion only, if never again – despair and unhappiness follow that man. He is marked. He is a _snake_. He will only hurt you. I can see it in him. Can't you?"

She looks back at the table, at Henry very cautiously sinking his teeth into an unpeeled orange, and says simply, "No."

Oliver sighs. It's more frustrated than sad. "Very well," he quips, stalking off entirely.

Iris lets him go, returning to the table to find Henry gazing at the orange with deep amusement. He hands it to her and Ronnie laughs. "Have you no manners?" Ronnie chides him. "What princess would eat of your fruit?"

Defiantly, Iris takes it and bites into it. Henry beams.

Oliver's absent chair weighs heavily on her mind as she takes a seat beside Henry again. "So," she resumes, addressing Ronnie, "tell me about your encounters with this … what did you call it?"

"Laugh all you please, but I swear upon my life, I _saw_ a Yeti—"

"Who is this?"

Iris turns, all conversation halting at her father's appearance. She frowns, anticipating a confrontation, and sees Daisy in the fold of his arms. The grey puppy looks tiny next to him. "She is … my new companion," she says, daring to smile. "Though I could be persuaded to share."

Her father frowns, still holding the squirming Daisy. "You know how I feel about animals in the house."

"Very dirty," Iris agrees. "Muddy paws everywhere."

"Mangled clothing," her father adds. Demonstratively, Daisy gnaws on his royal red coat. "Mangled furniture." With a sigh, he sets Daisy down. She tramples over to Iris eagerly. "The carpenters will be delighted," he says.

Iris smiles. Henry jumps beside her, overturning his drink and stirring teasing remonstrances from the rest of the table, "Can you not even hold your drink?" Henry looks startled and apologetic, but Iris sees Daisy latched onto his ankle and understands his surprise. Reaching down, she plucks Daisy free.

"And _who_ is this?" her father says, all hints of teasing vanishing from his tone.

"This is Henry," Iris says, in the tone of reminding one of old news, hoping the lie will be bought without much protest. "I haven't seen him in years. We caught up at the shoreline."

"So he, too, seeks danger irrationally," her father says. He steps forward. Henry rises beside her and thrusts out a hand. Iris bites her lip, tugging on his coat lightly, _oh, honey, no._ The irrational fondness is certainly misplaced, but it does amuse her more than it should when Henry's ears flush red and he retracts his hand. "I am King of this land," her father intones lowly in his proclamation-from-on-high voice. "If you believe I will be humored with jokes—"

"Father," Iris warns, because Henry looks like he'll melt into a puddle if her father doesn't relent. "He's not from here."

Huffing, her father indicates, "Here, we respect our Kings." Henry stares at him, and slowly extends his hand again.

"Good morning, Father," Wally interrupts, bowing deeply. He straightens with a smile. "I see you've met Daisy."

"You both will be the end of me," her father grunts, assuming the head of the table.

"I was simply declaring my fondness for the King," Wally says lightly, sitting on his righthand side. He is not Heir Apparent, but Iris is scarcely at breakfast to dine most mornings, and it's more agreeable to have distance between Henry and her father at such a tentative stage, regardless. "As we do," he adds, biting into a piece of bread.

Her father huffs. Iris cradles Daisy to her chest. Henry sits down beside her, and she strokes his arm once reassuringly, surprising herself. _He is a stranger,_ she reminds herself, but the warm flush to his face is worth the breach in decorum.

* * *

Belatedly, Barry realizes he has offended the King. His opportunity to remedy the situation passes before he can correct it, as Iris and – the boy, who must be the Prince - banter with their King. He stays low in his chair, mouth still tingling from the orange.

What a delightful thing, to _taste_ again. He hasn't tasted anything other than saltwater and stone since – well, since he was a boy. A _human_ boy.

Sirens don't need to feed. It is the single strangest quirk of their species. Barry does notice how sluggish he becomes if he stays beneath the surface too long, and wonders if sunshine isn't like food to him. It's a laughable thought, but – well, it's how _flowers_ feed, so surely it is not incomprehensible. _Should I not be green, like they?_ he thinks. But then, he realizes, his natural hue _is_ grey-blue, almost greenish in the water...

He takes another bite of the bread and groans deeply in satisfaction.

"You are a strange one," Ronnie muses. Barry merely takes another bite, stirring up the same visceral pleasure.

Gods be good, he _loves_ shorelander fare.

* * *

"A thief," David grunts. Baloo puts his head on his knee, tail wagging. Sighing, David tangles a hand in his fur. "Not even a thank you."

"I didn't realize you were only kind because you expected such," Rob teases, entering the room and kissing him. "Perhaps he simply wished to stretch his legs and will return to us."

"They're your clothes," David points out.

Rob shrugs, taking a seat across from him. "Fortunately, I have more than a single set," he says, smiling. "Come, now. You did the right thing. He would have frozen to death in the cold."

Grunting again, David takes a moody bite of his bread. "I don't like unresolved mysteries."

Rob smiles. "What's life without a little unresolved mystery?" he challenges.

* * *

By midmorning, thoroughly sated, Barry lounges in his seat, forgotten by the others as he plays with the dog in Iris' arms. What a lovely creature, he muses, as it gnaws on his finger with sharp little teeth. Shorelanders certainly know how to choose their companions.

The entire affair is amicable, quite lovely, even. The sheer notion of whiling away the day at Princess Iris' side appeals to him greatly, but he chafes a little in his seat. There is so much _world_ to see – and only one guaranteed day to do it. At last, his restlessness peaks and he can stay still no longer. He begins to stand. Princess Iris looks over at him in confusion and he sits quickly, face burning. _Do not be over-presumptuous,_ he chastises himself. _Enjoy what you have_.

But she understands, for she sets Daisy down and stands. Cautiously, he rises beside her. "Off so soon?" Eddie teases.

Princess Iris nods. "I promised Henry I would show him the town," she says.

 _What a wonderful thing,_ Barry thinks, heart pounding with delight. She'll show him the whole town! He resists the urge to take her hand and shake it, as is the custom of happy shorelanders – except for the King, the King is to be respected. "We'll be back," she assures, and takes his hand.

He has never felt warmer in his life, squeezing her hand and eagerly following her – to the town!


	8. Chapter 8

Henry in shoes is a sight to see.

Standing a few paces in front of him, Iris watches him walk with fawn-like caution across the floor, barely lifting his feet as he shuffles along. "They won't hurt you," she tells him, amused. He looks up at her and makes an inquisitive noise in his throat, almost like a chirp, before glancing back down at his feet. He takes another ginger step and promptly trips into her. His hands fly up to brace himself on the wall, caging her in rather than crushing her. She puts her own hands on his sides to steady him, feeling the smallest tremble there. "We'll keep trying," she assures him. Blushing, he steps back, and promptly yelps when he topples over backwards.

It goes about as well at the flower shop. Henry sniffs every plant available to him, sneezing furiously after sampling the marigolds. "I could fashion you a magnificent bouquet," tantalizes the shopkeeper, delighting in Henry's interest in his wares. "Something to brighten up the sill for the winter?" Henry sneezes again, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He growls deep in his chest, and the sound is not entirely human. Iris covers up the slip by assuring the shopkeeper that they'll have a dozen roses sent to the castle.

After the flowers, Henry seems a little miserable, rubbing at his nose with a kerchief. His good humor returns at the baker's, and he is positively merry by the time they step into the tavern for an afternoon refreshment. Sitting across from Henry, Iris watches him examine the lit wick of the candle in the center of the table. Before she can stop him, he reaches out and closes his thumb and forefinger around the flame, retracting his hand with a loud yelp.

She takes him to Linda's, then, for her bookshop has nothing dangerous residing in its shelves – that is, until he topples one over. Looking at her and Linda, Henry freezes, mid-reach for a book near the top of the case. Slowly, he lowers his hand, sinking from tiptoe back onto the flats of his feet. "Where did you say he was from?" Linda asks. Henry reaches down and sifts through the books on the floor, lifting one from the top and flipping through it.

"South," Iris replies vaguely. Stepping over to him, she begins sweeping the books out of the way so she might right the shelf. He steps in, picking up the books she sets aside, first a handful, then a dozen, and finally so many it's a wonder he doesn't drop them all. He hugs them to his chest, stepping out of her way with great care, and waits until she rights the shelf before stepping forward again. She takes a book off the top of his pile and shelves it, repeating the process until there is just one left. He carefully slides it into place, looking enormously pleased with himself.

Then, with candor, he turns to another shelf and holds out both hands, as though to push it, and Iris shakes her head and takes his arm. "We should be on our way," she tells him. "I have other things to show you, you know." Tucking her hand around his arm, she adds to Linda, "I'll see you again soon."

"I look forward to it," Linda calls back, amused.

They step outside to a yawning winter's eve, the brilliant haze of golden light announcing an early sunset. In the late day light, Henry goes rigid. Iris thinks at first he's cold, offering, "We could return to the castle for warmer clothes." There are still so many shops to see, and she planned on taking him out to supper with Wally and Jesse, but— He starts tugging anxiously at his collar, gaze sliding towards the sea, and finally looks back at her. Lowering his hand, he takes both of hers gently, squeezing them like he wants to say something.

Then he tugs her gently towards the coastline, and she doesn't resist him, letting him lead the way. Halfway there, he crouches and pries off his shoes, flexing his feet like they're hurting him. With greater zeal, he walks down the sloping grass, breathing becoming labored as the sun kisses the horizon. "Slow down," she advises when he stumbles, stepping forward to help right him. Little black claws dig into the grass, and she takes an involuntary step back in surprise, heart pounding.

 _Gods be good_ , she thinks, frozen in place. Unperturbed, he climbs shakily to his feet. He's clawing at his neckline so fiercely he finally tears the shirt free, tossing the torn article aside as he half-climbs, half-crawls down the stony berm. He rights himself to a low-shouldered crouch, almost animal in nature, and staggers the last few paces toward the water, collapsing to his knees in the wash and looking greyish, almost sickly.

Her instinct is to haul him back out, _you'll freeze_ , but he flops forward first, disappearing under the surf.

Shaking with cold and something else, Iris tucks her hands under her arms, the darkening air seeming to draw her breath with it. She waits for him to resurface, waits with great urgency, aware that he'll drown – _no, he won't_ – and struggling to suppress the urge to dive in after him. He's drowning. He's most certainly drowning, and she is simply standing here, letting it happen—

"Iris!" a voice calls, and she longs to tell them to leave her, because – well, because if Henry is what he appears to be, _otherworldly,_ then it is scarcely her place to reveal it – but she has no ready excuse on her tongue. "What on Earth are you doing down here?" Eddie chastises, stripping his coat from his shoulders and draping it around hers.

She opens her mouth to lie and shuts it sharply when she hears a soft splash. When she turns towards the water once again, she swears she sees a flicker of movement, like someone ducking beneath the surface, but the water is dark, now, and it's impossible to be sure. "I was – watching the sunset," she says, ignoring the fact that her view of it is decidedly poor, given that it is to be found on the opposite side of the occluding berm.

"Catching your death, more like it," Eddie huffs, but he's good-natured about it. "I thought it would be lovely to have a drink together, enjoy the company of good friends," he adds. She draws his coat tighter around her shoulders, resisting the urge to go after Henry. "What do you say?"

Iris dares a second glance at the water, but there is nothing to be seen but rolling, churning waves. _Winter in Annapurna_ , she thinks, shivering and drawing his coat closer to herself. "Sounds lovely," she says at last, even though leaving the water is the very last thing she wants to do. It _is_ cold, and – well, what can she do about Henry?

 _Absolutely nothing_.

It is that, more than anything, that finally persuades her to leave the shore, walking alongside Eddie and wondering, wondering, wondering about the creature beneath the waves.

* * *

Eyes closed, Barry lies flat on the ocean floor for a long time.

He doesn't breathe, doesn't speak, doesn't do anything at all, collecting himself. The occluding, world-ending darkness hasn't faded from memory, even though his sight is clear when he finally opens his eyes.

That was – closer than he would like it to be. The last time he felt so endangered, he was being dragged out to sea by the Siren Who Came Before him.

He doesn't quite remember how that ended, only that it was cold and dark and water was everywhere.

Something sharp stabs his hand and he snarls, twisting away from the eel and its crackling tail. He shoves himself off the rocks, amazed at how easy it is, and sees that where a human's furskin-clad legs resided, there is only a familiar gray paddle. He does not know where the furskin drifted off to, but the sight of his own tail brings him relief. For a moment he is too entranced reaching out to trace a hand over it to notice the second eel slip around him, searing a line across his back.

Arching, he reaches around to grab it, but it's already slipped away. _You are no Siren,_ it hisses.

 _You are no human, either_ , the first eel adds, and he twists to grab it before its twin shocks his side hard enough it goes numb.

Resting a hand over the wounded patch, he grits his teeth when the second eel sneers, _If you won't feed us, perhaps we should feed ourselves_.

 _Feed ourselves,_ echoes the first, and shocks him again with stunning force. He manages to ignore the pain just long enough to snag its twin from its own attack, gripping the twisting, screaming animal in his claws. It shocks him until he cannot feel his hands at all, but he doesn't release it, ignoring the spirited attempt its twin puts up as it tries to force him to surrender.

Though he does scarcely any harm to the animal, he does not release the eel, relishing the painful triumph. _I will not be tormented by you_ , he thinks, even as pain ricochets at every point of contact between them.

"Such violence?" a familiar voice asks.

In surprise, Barry's grip loosens, and the eel in his hands promptly escapes, surging out of reach. Its twin joins it, and they flank the half-woman, half-octopus, crackling with electricity. _Kill him_ , demands the eel to her left.

 _At once,_ urges the eel to her right.

She reaches up placatingly and brushes a hand against the left eel's side. If it hurts her, she gives no indication that it does. "Come, now," she chastises them. "Is this how we treat our friends?"

Barry's heart flutters in his chest, because the sheer idea – it's almost unbearably nice, after almost twenty years of isolation. He bows his head, overcome, and rubs his palms together to revive feeling in them. Fingers click nearby, and the feeling instantaneously returns, full and warm. He blinks, looking up at her. She smiles, showing pearly white teeth. "I can do so much more," she adds lightly, "but not many wish to associate with me." Gliding closer to him, she explains, "Some fear my abilities. They do not like that I can bridge the gap between our worlds."

She glides closer still. He doesn't move, aware of the eels still flanking her and the intensity of their glares. "I would like to give you what you want," she adds, and he feels his heart begin to pound even as he finally concedes and glides back a little, putting himself out of easy reach of those eels. "I ask only for something in return."

He frowns. _I don't have much._ Gesticulating helplessly, he tries to convey a spirit of cooperation: _But whatever I have, I'm willing to trade._ For a chance to walk on the shore? To spend a moment more with Princess Iris? He would tear out his own claws.

She smiles warmly. There's something sharp about it, something – ominous, but he ignores the twinge in his belly. She glides so close there's scarcely any space between them, uttering in an entrancing tone, "There is a sharp tool in your cave. Bring it to me."

Mind fuzzy, he nods slowly, turning to comply. He doesn't think at all on the way to his little cave, squeezing through the fissure in the floor and staring blankly at the empty walls. _You didn't need the stones,_ he thinks, but it doesn't erase the invisible knife that slots between his ribs. _You didn't,_ he insists. In the barren space, it's easy to locate what he needs. He lingers in his cave a moment longer, still too slow to process the enormity of the emptiness. No more pretty blue stones. _Iris loved those stones._

Tucking the knife between his teeth, he squeezes through the fissure and finds the woman right there, watching him. The eels are nowhere to be found. He relaxes a little, grateful for that, and takes the knife from his teeth. Holding it out to her, his hand around the sharp point, he tries to ignore the unease twisting in his belly. _They're not yours,_ he thinks, and it settles something in him, the idea that none of it – the pretty blue stones, the sailor's knife – are truly his. _Only your life is yours._

And he would give anything to live it ashore.

* * *

The soaked furskin takes quite a bit of agility to maneuver into, but after a titanic struggle, Barry finally succeeds in getting them back on his legs. Relieved, he laughs breathlessly, a sound full of light, and draws himself to his feet with a zeal known only to a child. Hurrying and scurrying, half-frozen but so happy that it can't slow him, he manages to climb back up the stony shore. He even locates the torn furskin, shrugging into it and striding briskly up the path, leaving the shoes in his wake because he's faster without them.

Breathing hard, he struggles back up the slope. Mere paces from the edge of the town, he pauses to double over his knees, panting and shaking hard. It's hard to get going again, hard to hold focus. His breath mists in front of him, and that alone is such a curious thing that he pauses just to watch it, breathing out a cloud. Amused, he can't help but wonder what giants must conjure the ones high above him in the sky when it is blue. Perhaps the ocean does it; for it alone seems the fit size.

The muffled sound of shorelander talk draws him out of his thoughts, and he staggers on, elated beyond imagining.

 _I won't waste a moment,_ he thinks, even though most of the houses are dark, and there is scarcely anyone wandering about. Some unfathomable time passes, and the cold slowly leaches away his euphoria until he can think of nothing besides returning to the warm ocean waters. _Just a dip would be sufficient,_ he determines, somewhat stupidly, for as a shorelander the ocean is _freezing_ , but it can't be any colder than he is now.

Decided, he turns back. Drunkenly, he staggers a few more steps before losing his footing and hitting the small-stoned path. Surrounded by shorelanders, he thinks, _There are worse places to rest._ A moment's rest will revive him, surely. His eyelids slide shut, urging him to indulge in just a moment's rest.

 _I love the shore,_ he thinks delirious, even as it leaches the very soul from him.

* * *

There's a delicious warmth in Iris' belly, the tavern fire playing across her skin until she is certain she could fall asleep at the wooden table. As it stands, she leans against Eddie, grateful for his companionship, and rests her eyes for a moment, listening to him talk with the shored-up sailors about their plans for the next season. She's drawn back into the conversation when Eddie asks her, "Have I bored you so sincerely?"

"I was up at sunrise," Iris reminds him, pushing off of him and taking a swig from – his mug. "This is horrible," she tells him, scrunching up her face. He laughs and slides her own mug back in easier reach, but she shakes her head, indicating, "I should be heading back." Through a yawn, she finishes, "My father will worry if I stay out much longer."

"Ah, but that is what fathers are for," Eddie jests. "Worrying them is a time-honored tradition."

"Very well, my _Daisy_ will worry," she says, pushing herself to her feet. "You are welcome to stay."

"What man would I be if I did not escort you?" Eddie chides, following her and dropping a generous sum of coins on the counter for the tavern keeper. "Besides, rumor has it you were involved in a rather harrowing sea voyage, not a fortnight ago," he adds.

Sighing, Iris presses open the tavern door and shivers at the immediate bite of cold. She draws Eddie's coat tighter around her shoulders. "Harrowing is not the word I would use," she mutters, setting a brisk pace that he matches easily.

"Near-fatal," Eddie synonymizes. "Exceedingly dangerous. Risky in the extreme—" He puts an arm around her shoulders, gently steering her away, and she sees the figure hunched down the way. Doubtless a drunkard, lost his way.

"We should—" she prompts.

"Stay the course," Eddie finishes.

Iris breaks away from him, a deep uneasiness settling in her chest. _Stay away._ Yet she walks towards the shape, Eddie trailing after with a sigh. "I would consider this an unnecessary risk, My Princess. Someone will surely take pity on the poor creature."

"I'm someone," Iris reminds him. The poor creature in question is just – sitting there, hunched over, an unrecognizable heap of a man. "Besides, I like taking unnecessary risks." She takes a few steps closer and halts, breath catching in her chest in a way that has nothing to do with the cold.

"Iris?" Eddie prompts, joining her, having dallied a few paces behind. "Are you—" He stops. He swallows audibly. "Oh."

It's Henry.


	9. Chapter 9

Edging closer, half-afraid to touch him, Iris crouches beside the curled-up Henry and reaches out a hand.

He shivers once, a full-bodied thing. Something electric sweeps down her spine. Her hand hesitates, hovering over his back. "Iris," Eddie warns, dry-mouthed and astonished. She unfolds the cloak – his cloak – from her shoulders and drapes it over Henry's back.

"We have to get him back to the castle," she says in a low voice.

"It will be faster on hoof," Eddie remarks. "Shall I—?"

Iris nods distractedly. Eddie takes off at a loping run across the pebbled stones towards the stables at the very far end of the lane. Reaching out, she curves her hand to Henry's frozen back, splaying her fingers across it, thumb brushing back and forth rhythmically. "Henry?" she tries, and then, apologetically: "I don't actually know your name, or if you have one, but – it's going to be all right." She can feel the icy tinge to his skin even through the thick fur of Eddie's cloak, and it makes a lump harden in her throat. "Everything's going to be all right," she repeats, mostly to herself.

Eddie trots back down the way on horseback, guiding a second on a rein. Their hooves clack familiarly on the street, preceding them. Iris doesn't move from Henry's side until they are on top of her, Eddie commanding both steeds to halt while dismounting and holding their reins. "All right, my darling," Eddie says, rubbing the neck of his beloved mare, Jupiter, "I'll need your help with this one." He pats his knee once, instructively. Jupiter whickers and descends, kneeling on the hard cobbles without complaint. Standing next to her, Titan, a younger black stallion, clips a hoof against the pavement, silently voicing dissent. "I won't make you do it," Eddie tells the stallion, amused. To Iris, he says simply, "Take the reins a moment."

Iris rises on stiff knees to oblige, loathe though she is to leave Henry even for a moment. The cold is profound on its own, and she aches for Eddie's cloak. Distracting herself by stroking Titan's snout, she watches Eddie hook both hands under Henry's shoulders before heaving upward. He yelps suddenly in surprise and remarks, "Gods be good, his hands—"

Iris cannot see Henry's front, but she can hear the faint, animalistic growl and the tiny crumple of claws digging into fabric. Even without his cloak, Eddie is well-protected by his tunic. A deep-seated groan crackles in Henry's chest as Eddie drags him backwards a few paces. Titan throws his head in agitation, but Iris doesn't look away from her points of interest.

Eddie hauls him onto the saddle. Slumped forward, Henry barely twitches as Eddie lashes his legs down with the straps in the saddle. He loops a cord across Henry's back for good measure, connecting it to the front of the saddle. Then he says, "All right." Jupiter rights herself, and Henry huffs against her neck but doesn't move, frozen in position. Black-nailed fingers flex against her mane, and Iris feels that same electric shiver surge down her back.

"He may lose all ten fingers," Eddie admits, catching her gaze, "but we will hope for a miracle. Up you go," he adds, nodding at Titan.

Iris obeys, hooking a foot in the stirrup and hauling herself up onto the standing stallion's back. His neck is very warm, and she tangles a hand in his mane gratefully. Annapurna winters are fierce, and even with her own furs to protect her, it's killing cold.

She tries not to think about that as Eddie walks Jupiter, one hand at the ready to catch Henry if he begins to fall. Following them, she tries not to resent the little eternity that stands between them and the castle. The warm, pleasant buzz in her stomach is gone, sobered by the air and circumstances. She aches only for her bed, and her castle, and her companions, besides.

Near the castle, Eddie recruits a ruffled-haired, bleary-eyed Ronnie to help carry Henry inside, one man under each shoulder. It's only then that Iris realizes exactly how late it is, and a new sense of quiet urgency unfolds: _don't wake anyone else._ Ronnie doesn't say much, asking Eddie something that Iris cannot hear. Dismounting, she lets a pair of alert stable-hands take Jupiter's and Titan's reins, following her boys back to the castle.

At this hour of night, it's cool without the hearth fires, but it's still warmer than the unbroken wall of cold outside it. Their footsteps are loud in the big empty foyer, but no one else comes to greet them. Turning into a guest room, they half-carry, half-drag Henry over to the bed, setting him on it with a soft grunt of exertion. "What happened?" Ronnie asks.

Eddie shakes his head. "I truly don't know," he admits, looking to Iris for guidance. "Have you any idea—?"

Stepping forward without answering, she takes one of Henry's cold, black-nailed hands in her own, squeezing it gently.

"I'll get the fire started," Ronnie says through a yawn, nodding at the little hearth in the room before stepping back.

"We should soak his hands, see if we can't…" Eddie's voice trails off as Iris releases Henry's hand and turns to look at him. "Iris," he says in astonishment. "Look."

Redirecting her gaze, she stares: before her eyes, Henry's fingernails turn pink. A thin little groan works out of his chest. Almost reflexively, she takes his opposing hand in her own. Mystified, she holds it and watches the same transformation unfold, startling when his hand squeezes hers faintly.

"Wow," Eddie says.

Iris says nothing, brushing her thumb over a soft human thumbnail and wondering. Wondering.

 _What are you really like?_

. o .

A beautiful sight greets Barry.

Snoring in a chair across from him, chin tucked to her chest, Princess Iris sleeps.

Someone had the kindness to drape a blanket over her shoulders, and he wonders who he should thank for covering the task in his own negligence. _A Princess should not be treated so carelessly,_ he rebukes himself. He feels heavy and alive, rejuvenated and sore, and pushes himself upright carefully, dislodging a mountainous pile of blankets. Underneath him, the bed creaks. He tenses expectantly, but the Princess does not wake.

Grinning to himself and his own boyish bravado, he slides to his feet. Shoeless, they're silent on the floor. The Princess snores on. He grins, so charmed it hurts.

Forgetting himself, he takes a step forward, loses his balance, and trips forward with a yelp. The calamity immediately startles the Princess to wakefulness. He makes an apologetic noise; she chirps, "You're awake!"

 _Sorry,_ he thinks sheepishly, pushing himself up onto his knees.

"Are you okay?" Princess Iris asks anxiously, hands steadying him on either bare shoulder. He freezes like a statue, so startled he can't breathe at all. _This is normal,_ he tells himself, and finally exhales. Straightening, he feels her hands slide down his sides to his waist. He towers over her. An irrational urge to fold her in his arms protectively nearly overcomes him, but he restrains himself, holding still until she releases him.

Looking down at himself, he cocks his head at the missing upper furskin. _Hm._ The modesty-preserving lower furskin is still intact, which, at least, offers him some reason not to bury himself in shame for accosting a Princess in such a state of undress. Lifting his gaze, he meets hers and finds himself frozen for a long moment, entranced. _Do your people tell you that you are the most beautiful creature above or below the sea?_ he aches to ask, daring to hold out his hands, taking hers and squeezing them earnestly. She smiles a little, and he dares to hope that the spirit, if not the words, of the message has been received.

He brushes a thumb against the soft skin of her palm, marveling. _Two days,_ he muses. _Two happy days!_ Beaming, he flashes a smile with teeth. Her lack of surprise must mean they're as soft-pointed as they look, and he relaxes as he lets go of her hands.

Stepping towards the window, he squints at the land and shore beyond it. It's so cloudy outside that he can't see a thing. Squinting through the mist, he blinks in surprise when Princess Iris steps up beside him, reaching out and using part of a furskin to clear the window. _Extraordinary_ , he muses, reaching out to touch the cloudy window and staring down at his damp fingertips. _How does this even happen?_

Idly, as a child, he remembers it – sitting on a windowsill, using his thumb to brush a line so that he might see out into the world, but – the fuzz of twenty years subtracts the tangibility of the thing. Perhaps it was only a dream. Gazing outward, he relaxes at the sight of the soft, silvered, morning light, familiar even from this side of the waves. _I still have time_.

Looking at Princess Iris, still ruffled and sweet, he smiles, close-mouthed but sincere. _I still have time._

. o .

"Aren't they sweet?" Lisa coos, watching the Siren and the shorelander walk side-by-side down the quiet town. The eels sink back below the surface, visibly agitated, slinking over her shoulders.

Nep hisses, _Adorable._

Tune sulks silently on her right shoulder, demanding after a beat, _Is this to be our game? We had more fun with Eobard._

"Oh, but don't you love a little challenge?" Lisa asks, stroking Tune's crackling head. The electricity doesn't hurt her – one of the many perks of being a Sea Witch. "Eobard would never have fallen into such a simple trap. He would have seen the danger."

Nep snarls. _I'm hungry_ , it says. _I'm not accustomed to clams and squid. They rot my teeth._

Lisa scratches its chin. "You know I can't lure humans to the waters," she reminds it. "My powers are limited to the ocean. The humans must come of their own accord."

Nep hisses lowly. _They don't come to the waters in the winter,_ it snaps.

Lisa's hand closes around its head, warningly tight. "Patience," she says coolly. "If he isn't completely charmed by her, we'll gain a formidable adversary if we push too hard."

 _We're formidable adversaries_ , Tune points out, swelling to its full size.

Releasing Nep, Lisa glides forward, facing off with the eels and saying simply, "I gave you immortality because you're more entertaining than urchins. Don't make me rescind it."

Tune lowers its head. Nep makes a disgusted sound before turning away, swimming off. _We can kill humans on our own._

Rolling her eyes, Lisa snaps her fingers. Nep freezes in place, utterly paralyzed. Drawing it back towards her, she waits until both eels are facing her again before speaking. "First option," she says, all good humor gone, "I string you both up on the shore with a sweet note for our Siren boy about the nuisances that I have graciously removed for him." Neither eel twitches. They can't. "Second option. You get to harass anything that moves, and when the time is ripe, you will not only have a feast, but a Siren who is only too happy to give it to you."

She snaps her fingers again. Both eels visibly relax, released from the enchantment, but their body language is still agitated. _He won't kill,_ Nep says in disgust. _It's been_ —

 _Twenty years,_ Tune finishes. _He's allergic to his own nature._

"Finally," Lisa says in dry exasperation, "something we agree on."

The eels are silent, regarding each other before turning to face her. _What do you mean?_ Nep asks warily.

"He's allergic to his own nature," Lisa parrots. "He won't ever be happy as a human or a Siren. At least one provides peace. The other will simply drive him mad." When neither eel responds, she smiles. "We've waited twenty years. What is two days to an immortal?"

Tune exhales a low hiss. _Nothing,_ it says.

Nep refuses to say it, but it doesn't lash out, either.

Cradling the pretty blue stone on a string around her neck, Lisa assures, "Tonight, we seek a more … _rewarding_ payment."

. o .

Properly garbed in magnificent purple, Henry ambles alongside Iris, letting her hold onto his arm.

Ostensibly, she does so in the sort of casual air of friends, but inwardly she worries he might face-plant a fourth time if left to his own devices. At least he understands shoes – more or less. He already cuts a striking figure, taller than the average man, and bare-footed he draws the wrong sort of attention. All but the youngest children wear shoes, especially on the rough cobbles, but – well, she can't suppose she'd know the etiquette of his kind, if presented to it.

 _A merman,_ she muses, beaming privately at the knowledge that she is perhaps the only human on Earth escorting such an unusual creature. Her curiosity burns – she fashions whole Mer-kingdoms in her mind, full of fantastic architecture and even more fantastic people, fit to rival anything human – before recalling his solitary response to that burning question:

 _Are you alone?_

Looking right at her, he hadn't needed to say it, but the nod was enough.

She revises the fantastical image, depopulating the halls of those grand coral structures and seaweed forests, removing the laughter of children and the idle chatter of peers, the musings of elders, even the softest whisper of dissent, until the entire kingdom is empty. The ache of a silent catastrophe burns in her chest, and she leans against him a little without meaning to.

His ambiguous answer to the simple question – _Are there others like you?_ – makes something hurt in her chest.

 _There were_ , she realizes, and holds onto him all the tighter.

Looking at her, surprised but flushed with warmth, he smiles lazily, looking back out at the town and exhaling deeply. She understands – on foot, it would take the better part of a month just to visit every shop, let alone dally over every trinket, as he is wont to do – but there is a sadness in his eyes that she aches to remove. So she doesn't take him to any of the innumerable market goods, even though there's a divine scent radiating from the bakery – she is certain her family intended to build close to it, or simply ordained that one must be built near the castle – but to the square.

Even at this early hour, traders are out, embracing the cold to sharpen their wits. Taking a seat on the central fountain, idle and empty, now, Iris smiles as Henry spends a moment negotiating the same effortless motion before relaxing. She leans against him, still extraordinarily warm, bouncing back from the cold in a way that only makes her more conscious of how very _alive_ he is. The stone underneath them is cold, and her legs go numb nearly instantaneously, but she doesn't mind, enjoying the sheer _liveliness_ of Annapurna.

She hears bickering nearby and turns to see an unfamiliar man warning a familiar first mate, "The salt truly has addled your brain if you _believe_ in those stories."

"Keep your voice _down_ ," first mate Cisco Ramon warns, and Henry goes rigid at her side.

Instantly curious, Iris lifts her voice in greeting: "Aren't you supposed to be on a beautiful island this time of year, Mr. Ramon?"

Both men turn to her – _brothers,_ she instantly surmises – and Cisco grins at the sight of her. "What on Earth are you—" His gaze slides inexorably to her left, where Henry is still seated, and his voice trails off. He opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, and the other Ramon finally thumps him on the back. Coughing, he waves a hand, assuring, "I'm not – I'm fine, I'm fine, leave me be," he adds, playfully swatting his brother's hand as it gives him a second thump for good measure. "I just – my God, you look familiar."

He steps forward. Henry holds very still. Iris wants to ask Henry what has him so on edge, but he has no way to fully explain it, so she refrains. "I'm afraid all of the beautiful islands are already full of lazy sailors," Cisco introduces, bowing. "I have a stronger appetite for adventure."

"And a head full of fantasies," the second Ramon adds dryly, clasping him on the shoulder. "To hear him tell it, you'd think mermaids were simply lying in wait."

Henry doesn't move. Iris approves; she's fairly sure any gesture would be a tell, even though she also knows he'd roll his eyes at 'mermaid.' _Maybe it's ubiquitous_ , she chides herself, amused at the thought that she'd been unnecessarily correcting the term. Cisco clears his throat like he's embarrassed, but he looks past her at Henry with sudden conviction. "Forgive my brute of a brother," he says, "he was leaving. Weren't you, Dante?"

Dante bows, taking her hand and kissing it. "Pleasure to meet you, Princess," he says sincerely. Tipping his head idly at Henry, he adds, "And – friend. Forgive me if I don't kiss your hand."

Henry blinks once in bewilderment, then looks down at his hand like he's just noticed it for the first time. Amused, Dante departs, leaving the three of them clustered around the fountain.

As soon as he's out of hearing range, Cisco says in a heated whisper, "We need to talk."

Henry actually shakes his head, but Iris says firmly, "We do."

Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Henry makes an aggrieved sound. After a long moment, he nods, rising to his feet. He towers over Cisco, and it seems to put something in his mind at ease, just the same as it puts something in Cisco's shoulders on edge. Reflexively, Iris steps between them, and the tension instantly levels out: Henry seems to hunch inward shyly, and Cisco straightens to his full height, reducing the sheer disparity.

She wants to lead, but Henry won't follow, keeping his gaze firmly on Cisco. So she suggests to Cisco, "Why don't you lead the way?" She lays a calming hand on Henry's arm. He relaxes. Cisco finally nods and obeys, swallowing once.

His reaction – his overreaction – to Henry makes her wary, suddenly, and she wonders what bad blood exists between them, how on Earth Cisco Ramon _knows_ him, but she's so conscious of Henry's tension that she barely notices the time slip by until the town melts into the forest.

At the edge, Henry plants his feet, and Cisco turns back at the sound. "All right," he concedes, reclaiming the distance between them and folding his arms over his chest. "There shouldn't be any eavesdroppers around here." Looking at Iris, he asks seriously, "Do you know this man?"

 _No_ , Iris thinks honestly.

Henry's lip curls for an instant like he wants to snarl, but he retracts it before she can confirm it. Cisco holds his ground.

"Yes," she says aloud, and Cisco arches both eyebrows.

"How?" he demands. "I mean – how did you two meet?"

It's a gamble. If she tells him more than he already knows, she's potentially putting Henry in danger – a fact he seems very cognizant of, the tension radiating from him – but there's a keenness to his question, to his flat expression, that says he already knows the right answer. And he already used the word, however idly: _mermaid._ "At the shore," she says at last.

Henry takes half a step forward, surreptitiously putting himself partially in front of her. Even without words, the message is very clear. _Don't push this._ She says firmly, "Henry." He ignores her, advancing another step. Cisco holds his ground absolutely, and for a moment Iris is genuinely afraid Henry could and would kill him before she could intervene.

It's hard to reconcile the curious, towel-ruffling creature with the growling, heavy creature planted in front of her. At least he's in front of her, she thinks, a little ashamed for her gratitude; being protected by him does not mean she should be less wary if he strikes.

Henry takes another step forward. Gravel crunches underfoot. Iris doesn't intervene, but her breath catches in her chest as he extends a hand, closing it around Cisco's shoulder. Calmly, Cisco unfolds his arms, untucks his shirt, and pulls a good-sized knife off his belt. "What happened to your claws?" he asks calmly, revealing his own hand. Henry doesn't move. Unless he has hitherto unknown godly speed, he wouldn't be able to escape a fatal stab, and he knows it. He doesn't let go of Cisco's shoulder.

Growling low, sounding more frustrated than afraid, Henry squeezes his shoulder hard, and the knife's pointy tip presses against his abdomen. Iris says warningly, "Don't hurt him."

"I won't," Cisco says steadily. He waits a beat, and Iris is struck by how utterly trapped Henry seems, despite having the visible adventure. One sharp little point, and it's all over, and he knows it. He lets go of Cisco's shoulder. When Cisco doesn't remove the knife, he presses forward.

Cisco keeps it level with his navel, ready to gut him if it comes to it. "I gave you one of these," he says, and Henry doesn't move, doesn't respond. "Remember?" he asks, flipping the knife around, blade in his palm, holding it out to Henry. Iris' stomach hurts, because she hasn't seen the knife, but – well, if Henry – _that's not his name, you don't know his name_ – if _he_ had it, then why hadn't she seen it yet?

A darker thought enters her mind, but she pushes it aside. _If he wanted to kill me …_ She trails off, because there is no justifiable explanation for why he wouldn't. A coldness sweeps over her. She feels suddenly, desperately out of her depth in this whole affair, watching the two men stand off. Henry takes the knife, and holds it for a long moment, deciding.

Then he steps back from Cisco, looking between the two of them, three points on an invisible triangle. He looks at the knife, at the regal purple across his chest, and a sour smile crosses his face. And though Iris has seen it before, half a dozen times, sailors never have enough hands – it still startles her when he calmly, casually puts it between his teeth.

Human teeth, human jaw, human nose, human –

No.

Those eyes aren't human. And looking right at her, Iris realizes just how deeply erroneous it is to assume he is.

Cisco whistles. Henry removes the knife and throws it on the ground, like he can't bear to touch it, and sinks to the ground, hands burying themselves in his hair. Low and hunched inward, he's harder to strike, and still more vulnerable for it. Iris can't move, staring at the two of them.

Slowly, Cisco crouches next to the hunched over Henry. He rests a hand on Henry's shoulder, mirroring his earlier gesture, and gives it a little squeeze. "I don't know what you are," he admits, and it's like some tension is released between them, an unknown anxiety evaporating, "but I'm willing to trust that you mean us no harm."

Henry looks up, finally, before glancing back down. Cisco rights himself, holding out a hand to help Henry up. Henry ignores him. "Hey," Cisco says firmly, giving his shoulder a pat. "Come on. We'll figure this out. Whatever this is." He retrieves and belts the knife, but Henry just stays in place, hunching inward. A thin noise hiccups in his chest, like he's trying not to make a sound.

Then a tear drips down his cheek. Crushing a hand against his mouth, he sobs silently. Heart breaking, Iris kneels next to him, hugging him from the side.

"It's okay," she says. He shakes his head gently and she squeezes him, insisting, "It's okay. It's okay."

And holding him together as he falls apart, she realizes that there is no way this emotion is not human, and only holds him tighter for it.


	10. Chapter 10

What would you trade for the chance to walk on another world?

The simple stuff is easy to imagine.

A sum of money.

An opportunity to travel elsewhere.

A treasured item.

Then there are more complicated choices.

* * *

Holding onto Princess Iris' arm, seated on the forest floor, Barry stays with her for a small eternity.

Readjusting his grip, he feels his claws dig into her skin. He doesn't release her, but he does relieve the pressure. A heaviness settles in his chest, warning and sharp. He holds onto his breath, longing to tell her the simplest of truths: _I would never hurt you. I would sooner die_. Instead, he tries to instill it in his touch, to mean it enough that one human being might fully understand him one last time. _I would never hurt you. I would sooner die._

She tangles a hand in his hair at the base of his skull and he dares to believe that this thing between them is something worthwhile. Something worth fighting for. _Another day,_ he thinks fiercely. It is that thought alone that finally gives him the strength to let go.

Back to the water the wolf in sheep's clothing staggers, stripped of his royal purples and shoes, wearing only the decency-preserving lower furskins. He feels a fury overtake him at the cloying, choking feeling in his chest, because he was promised another day, and how could it have been—? But the days, he reflects bitterly, are short this time of year. The sun swings low, kissing the horizon.

Sitting on the large stones of the shoreline, Princess Iris rests her chin in a palm and wraps herself more tightly in her furs, watching him. He sinks into the surf, disappearing under the waves and letting water flood his mouth and lungs. Relief courses through him at the familiarity of it. In a dreamlike complacency, he strips off the remaining furskin, struggling to get the end of his paddle free as it emerges seconds later.

And then, freed again, he does a single loop, marveling at how _easy_ it is to move in the water. Smiling, he looks for the half-woman, half-octopus, but finds no sign of her. Tucking his furskin under an arm, he drifts out to sea, tempted to call out but resisting the urge. Darkness makes it more difficult to see, even for a Siren, but he keeps at it, stowing his furskin in his empty den and carrying on in near blindness.

He bobs to the surface and realizes how far he has drifted only when he sees how tiny the figure on shore is. _Princess Iris_ , he thinks, and in something approaching a panic he ducks under the waves and cuts for the shoreline. In shallow water, he reappears at the surface, relaxing when he sees her. "That's remarkable," Cisco comments, approaching with a small cage of fire and chomping down on a roasted leg of – Barry sniffs deeply, but he's forgotten the name of the animal. Smells divine. He never realized just how mouth-watering human food was until he had it again. "I half-thought I was hallucinating that day," Cisco admits, taking a seat and holding out a second leg to Princess Iris. "Turkey?"

Princess Iris shakes her head, rising from her seat and approaching Barry. "You seem so … ordinary," she muses. He huffs, casually baring his teeth, canines sharpened to a killing point.

"Saw those," Cisco says, mouth full. "That was the real reason I gave you my knife," he adds idly, but Barry has eyes only for the Princess as she kneels at the edge of the surf, "you all but put your name on it, biting into it the way you did." Slowly, carefully, Barry drifts closer, aching to touch her, but the water – it's freezing, and while it does not bother him, it should surely chill her. Wisely, she remains just out of its reach. And his. "He has a tail," Cisco points out, and Princess Iris glances over her shoulder and must make an expression that finally calls him to silence. "Sorry, I'll stop ruining the fun," he says, saluting with the second turkey leg. The small boxed fire flickers beside him, illuminating the space in golden yellow light.

Barry waits until Princess Iris looks at him again, something like childlike curiosity glowing in her eyes. He smiles again, close-mouthed but still pleased just to be near her. He sinks low in the surf, suddenly self-conscious of the tail just below the waves. "Can I see it?" she asks. He hesitates, sinking lower.

On the one hand, he welcomes the curiosity, the shy but earnest interest, but – well. Up to this point, she's only seen him with a man's legs. What will she think, if she sees him in such an animal state? Blinking up at her, hoping she'll forget her own question and inquire something else, he finds no luck. "You don't have to show me," she adds sincerely.

"Yes, he does," Cisco says from behind them.

Barry growls; Princess Iris warns, "Cisco."

A loud crunch is all they hear as Cisco splits turkey between his teeth once again. Sinking beneath the surface, Barry turns onto his back and looks down at his tail. It's rather splendid, extending fully twice the length of his torso before fanning out to a smooth, curved paddle, grayish-blue in appearance, a tool first and accoutrement second. But it is unlike the sinuous, gorgeous tapers of the Merfolk tails or even the regal coherency of a Selkie's seal form. Not for the first time, he finds himself embarrassed at the lack of ornamental Merfolk color or architectural magnificence of a seal tail.

 _Mama,_ a merchild with a brilliant azure tail once observed, _his tail is sick._

Rubbing the side of it idly, like he can transform it from a functional curiosity to an actual wonder, Barry resurfaces. Turning onto his back again, he looks at Princess Iris, still seated among the rocks. At last, he arches the end of the flat paddle out of the water. Conveniently, it hides his face; at her gasp, he blushes furiously and ducks back under the waves.

 _It's ugly, she hates it, could you not even pretend to be a shorelander properly?_ he berates himself, sinking low to the rocky shallows. After a few moments, he feels water being displaced nearby. He doesn't immediately understand it until – oh. _Oh_.

Lunging upright, he comes face-to-face with the Princess.

Correction: he would have come face-to-face with the Princess, had she not startled back in surprise and promptly landed in the water.

Anxious and apologetic, he surges forward, hands on her waist, reflexively steadying and righting her. The waves push against him but do not move him at all, unable to best a powerful animal in his element. Teeth chattering, Princess Iris holds onto his bare arms and observes softly, "I thought you'd l-left." Shaking his head slowly, Barry holds her sides, keeping the pressure on his claws to an absolute minimum. Scarcely days ago, he held her like this, and she didn't know he existed then. God, if he's the death of her— "It's very c-cold," she remarks, pulling him back from memory, chopping waves and a terribly fearful premonition that the ship was in danger.

Nodding in acquiescence, he propels her gently but assuredly towards the shore. She lets him, stepping out of the water and pulling her second furskin around her torso again, exhaling a cloud. "How do you stand it?" she asks, more amused than shocked.

Barry cocks his head to one side. Then he lifts his tail behind him in a shrug, making her laugh. And, oh, it's a _beautiful_ sound – he positively beams, his own jaw dropping reflexively in a toothy smile. No self-respecting Merperson would ever pose in such a way – he's seen Selkies occasionally do so in their seal forms, exultantly arching their heads and tails – but he doesn't care, because Princess Iris isn't a self-respecting Merperson, and neither is he.

Lowering his tail, he ducks back under the water, flushed with amusement that – _he_ made her laugh. He did that. And he can do it again, he thinks brightly, scrambling for – some amusement, some curiosity, some _thing_ — He finds a blue stone and surfaces, holding it up triumphantly and flicking it towards her, aiming to the left to ensure he doesn't hurt her. The stone lands precisely where he wants it to – there are few sports for lone Sirens to engage in, after all – and she arches her eyebrows as she leans over and picks it up. "You spoil me," she teases.

Then, knowingly, she looks off to his right, winds her arm back, and pitches the stone out to sea. Barry is halfway to it before it hits the waves, grinning in triumph as he catches it barely below them. Tucking it between his teeth, sharp and familiarly precise, he glides back over and pops back out of the water scarce seconds later, flicking it back onto the shore in front of her.

"You're fast," she muses, and it's a challenge as she sweeps the stone up and stands. He glides back a few paces, straightening in the water. Challengingly, she steps further back on the shore; he takes her cue and retreats to deeper water. And then, inspired, he waits until her arm twitches back, a powerful animal in _her_ element, before diving for the floor.

About-facing, he surges upright and breaks through the ceiling of his world, daring to be seen, daring to exist. Then he disappears again, stone in hand, and grins triumphantly as he tucks it between his teeth.

Then there's a shock at the back of his neck so severe it nearly paralyzes him. He drops the stone in surprise, struggling to adjust to the sudden pain. He turns sharply to confront his attacker but – it's already gone, searing the sole of his left foot, grazing the skin beneath his right eye. In the dark water and caught off-guard, he can't seem to pin down either eel. Swimming away only leaves his tail vulnerable, and he snarls in pain as one of them latches onto old Merfolk inflicted scars, aggravating the injury by shaking its head violently.

The second eel gets a hold of the back of his right shoulder and he arches, clawing at it, thrashing in a futile attempt to dislodge them both. They don't relent, and he sees red flood the water as, all at once, the tiny, sharp teeth retract. Twin currents of eels vanish.

Thoroughly stunned, he spends a moment sinking in open water. If he can just – he sees more red clouds and realizes he's bleeding, somewhere, everywhere.

He paddles towards shore, bleary and desperate for safety, nearly impaling himself on a sharply obtruding rock as he scrambles up the beach. Heavy and awkward above the waves, his tail struggles to find any purchase whatsoever. He finds himself aching for legs – so much lighter and easier to carry! – and turns onto his back, exhaling deeply.

He reaches up to feel the stinging bite marks underneath his right eye, scarcely aware of Princess Iris running towards him. Cisco and his bobbing orange light aren't far behind him, but Barry shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to sort out the various aches. Blood in the water. He can feel it on his fingertips; if he's lucky, his face is the only place that's bleeding.

Startled by the ferocity and swiftness of the attack, he's even more surprised when he feels a hand holding something soft to his cheek. "You're bleeding," Iris remarks, alarmed, pressing the cloth to his face.

He blinks deliriously up at her. He can barely make out her features, but God, she is _radiant._ He reaches up in astonished surprise to graze his fingers across her unmarred cheek. And then, achingly disappointed, he realizes he dropped the stone. Empty hands grapple at the stone around him, trying to push himself upright, but the simple gesture makes him grimace. Ow. Ow, ow, _ow._

Making a soft approximation of the sound, he reaches up, holds her hand to his cheek, and lets himself be lost for a moment in time.

* * *

"What happened?" Cisco asks breathlessly, halting nearby.

Iris holds Henry's head in both her hands, red-stained cloth still held against his cheek, and shakes her own head. "I don't know," she says, guilt and fear rising in her as she looks at the damage. There are bitemarks across his body: ribcage, wrist, the tiny sliver of back she can see, a deep laceration ripped down the side of his paddle. _His paddle_ , she thinks, and tries not to feel, at the very least, slightly hysterical about it.

But despite the absurdity of their positions, Iris feels calm sweep over her instead. Henry smiles lazily up at her, the tips of those pointy teeth visible against his lower lip. He sweeps his thumb against the hand holding the cloth to his cheek and looks more pleased than he has any right to be, bleeding as much as he is. He looks up at her in wonder despite the deep, purple bruising already forming around his eye, and she wants to gently shake him. _What happened to you because of me?_

He sits up shakily. She sees even more angry red marks across his back – it's shredded, whole hanks of flesh worried between a small but menacing set of teeth. And his tail… He leans forward to examine it, the good humor vanishing from his eyes. She keeps a steadying hand on his left shoulder, the one portion not raw and angry. The muscles bulge under her fingers, stronger than she expects, and she understands at once how he is able to launch sailors from sea to tiny ship without apparent effort. He makes a low, disappointed noise, and takes the abandoned white – decidedly redder – cloth and curling it around the deep cut.

Exhaling noisily, he seems so – alive, and inhuman, and extraordinary all at once. She has to step back, overcome. Looking up at her, he frowns apologetically, opening his mouth like he wants to speak before closing it. Making another, even less readable sound, he tightens his grip on the cloth and closes his eyes, twisting his head like it hurts him. She shoves her feelings aside, confused as they are, and crouches beside him again. She dares to take hold of the cloth for him, letting no part of her hand touch his tail.

Not only does it seem – improper, but it promises to make its realness undeniable. _His_ realness.

She crouches there, numb with cold and anxious for him. Slowly, she lets her fingers splay. He watches her hand, and then her face, and finally reaches forward with trembling fingers, brushing it off the cloth and onto the skin itself.

She doesn't know what she expected, but the sheer firmness catches her off-guard. It is rock solid, heavy. When she brushes her thumb against it, it has the consistency of an incredibly dense coat of fur, almost soft in its finite divisions. Fascinated, she runs her hand down the length of it, more out of reflex than conscious action. He twitches it slightly, perhaps also reflexively, and she snaps back to herself, blushing fiercely. "Wow," is all she can say.

He lets out a huff, one sharp-pointed hand reaching for hers and clasping it. There's blood on his fingers. It draws her attention back to the wounds – dozens of them, and she aches to ask what happened and knows he can't tell her – and breaks the moment of distraction. He rubs his eyes – even they're bloodshot – before he blinks at her, like he's trying to comprehend _her_ realness.

It seems fitting, and it makes her smile.

Then something crackles in the water and Iris startles back a step. An eel breaches the surface, and without waiting an instant he lunges forward, ignoring her shout of warning. They disappear in a flurry of foam, and she aches to join him but cannot move, paralyzed. "Don't," Cisco warns, putting a hand on her shoulder, and she realizes she's taken a step forward, is about to take another into the water, when –

Sputtering, he breaks the surface, an eel in either clawed hand, face a rictus of pain. Muscles convulsing, he can barely hold onto the crackling animals, and Iris can only imagine the agony of trying as his grip involuntarily loosens. Before it abandons him entirely, he flings both eels far out into the water, sinking low in the surf. Rushing forward at last, Iris hooks both hands under his arms and drags him back to the safety of the shore.

Groaning, looking decidedly worse for wear, he glances up at her and pats her arm with a bloodied hand, _it's okay_ plain in his eyes.

A sharp jerk nearly pulls her into the water as he slides back. She plants her feet and Cisco joins her, but the creature on the other end is strong – powerfully, inexorably strong, and Iris feels herself being drawn out to sea even as Henry looks up at her and shakes his head. "Princess," Cisco says softly, and lets go. Iris only doubles down, and Henry grunts as the force near his tail end tugs him harder.

Reaching up, he pleads without words, pawing weakly at her hand. She feels tears burn in her eyes, fearful, furious tears, and says sharply, "No. _No._ "

And then he's just – _gone_ , slipped through her fingers. She crashes to the shallows. Righting herself as quickly as she can, she frantically searches, but – there's no sign of him.

He may never have been there, but for the blood on the rocks.

Resting a gentle hand on her shoulder, Cisco says quietly, "I think it's okay."

Iris appreciates the hesitation, kneeling in the surf, devastated and cold and hungry for him.

 _I had him_ , she thinks, as a tear slips down her cheek. _I lost him._

* * *

"Poor, unfortunate soul," the half-woman, half-octopus croons, dragging Barry effortlessly by the paddle. He can't seem to move any limb, but – aching head to tail, he isn't sure he'd want to. Without a word, she releases him, and he sinks. Panic rises in his chest. Try though he might, he can't _move_. Then, not of his own volition, he halts in the water, held at attention, tail still bleeding freely.

Smiling, the half-woman, half-octopus clicks her fingers. Heat pours across him, searing the cuts to extinction. He would scream if he could, but frozen, he can only allow the noise to rise in his chest, faltering in his throat and dying off before it reaches his lips. The restraining pressure vanishes; he sags, sinks, groaning softly.

An elevating pressure rises like a current under him, buoying him, and he settles into it like a chair. "Take a rest," she croons, drifting towards him. "After all – you've been on your feet for days." She glides a tentacle over his arm, musing, "How much longer do you think it can last?"

He forces himself to meet her gaze. _Forever,_ he thinks, and sees it reflected in the gold in her eyes.

"I am generous," the sea-woman continues, "yet … I feel you take that generosity for granted." The buoying pressure vanishes, and he sinks again, righting himself after a beat. He feels heavy, slow. Exhausted. "Come, now, Siren – you would heal so much faster if only you would let that song out of your heart."

He doesn't know if it's true, but he doesn't dare entertain the idea. Pain is manageable. Disagreeable, yes, but nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He won't let it compromise his morals. Besides, he thinks bitterly, looking right at her, does she not know what will happen to her if he does? She smiles, like she knows exactly what danger she's tempting, gliding closer still until he can only see the gold in her eyes. "Oh, my child," she croons. "You do not deserve the gift."

He wants to lash out, but the thought barely passes his mind before he's frozen again. He can only stare in silent frustration as she cradles his face with a tentacle, wagging it back and forth in a mockery of dissent. "They die, you know," she tells him, holding his head still and staring into his eyes. Her own are fathomless; the edges dissolve, leaving only deep pools of gold behind, and he cannot look away.

"No matter how many sailors you save," she croons, and he sees an after-image of a silhouette sweep beneath a sinking human, "no matter how many humans you think you spare, they still die." This time, a small silhouette trails after two larger ones, until, all at once, the larger silhouettes disappear. "They die horrible, horrible deaths," she adds, and he sees those silhouettes in various contortions of agony and disrepair. "Mangled by disease, dismembered by each other.

"But you." Here, a black-silhouetted Siren drifts across his field of view, and he can almost hear that Siren's song as she narrates, "You can give them peace." A bird alights on the Siren's arm; a dolphin leaps alongside it; every manner of creature the Siren encounters appears better for it, livelier, happier, and full of that song that brings tears to his eyes. "You can give them what they want." A staggering, silhouetted human struggles towards the sea, and the Siren calls to them, and embraces them, and the human relaxes into its arms as they both dissolve from the golden scene.

"Yet you deny them," the sea-woman accuses. He sees the bird drifting listlessly, the dolphin wandering aimlessly, the human seated in a catatonia on the shore, aching with anguish. "Do you not see the harm you cause with your inaction?"

Breathing shallowly, unable to do anything else, Barry cannot answer. _I won't enslave them_ , he thinks, and it helps clear the haze from his eyes. _I won't hurt them_ , he insists, faintly at first and then fiercely. He manages the tiniest snarl. Rather than looking annoyed, the sea-woman laughs and pinches his bruised cheek hard. "You think death is cruel," she muses. "Do you not see your own calling, Siren? You are the Reaper. You are supposed to collect them. Yet you leave the fields fallow, the harvest unpicked. The world is _rotting._ "

An eel crackles nearby. "The sailors grow bold and reckless under your protection," she says, and an image appears across the golden field of his sightline, silhouetted figures crowded on a ship venturing out into deep, dangerous waters. "They'll suffer because they think you'll protect them." The ship breaks in half, and the Siren strains to keep them above water but cannot, not forever, not long enough. To exhaustion, the Siren tries, and tries, and still they drown, all of them, in the deep open water he could not stop them from testing their wits against.

"Other creatures will grow argumentative, too," she adds. Barry sees a Selkie transform from a seal into a human on the shore, approaching a silhouetted human with a knife behind its back. "A little fear is a healthy thing," she says. In the golden light, Barry watches the Siren call out to the Selkie. The knife set to plunge into the human's chest falls; the Selkie retreats to the waves.

"It keeps the sea orderly," she points out. He sees a shark disturbing a small pod of carousing dolphins, eels snatching fish from the shallows, prey of all manner treading more considerately while predator regard their surroundings with great intent. "You are what stands between us and chaos." The image vanishes, and he stares at her eyes, blue now, and blinks slowly. "So tell me, Siren – which world do you want to live in?"

She releases the paralyzing grasp, but he doesn't accost her. He feels vaguely sick, knowing that – she's wrong, she's _wrong_ , he's not –

 _You are a monster,_ he thinks, and looks down at his clawed hands, the sharp tips of his teeth digging into his lower lip. _You're a monster._

He looks up, shaken. Ruffling his hair with a hand, a mockery of kindness, the woman says, "I'll give you what you want. But unlike you, I am not afraid to embrace the nature of this world. Its callousness. Its cruelty." She glides away. He aches, suddenly, intensely, for the shore, anything but this open water. "I have something I want you to do for me." Again, the flicker of the Selkie in human form, knife upraised. "If you want another day on the shore," she says, turning to face him, "you will bring me the Selkie's skin."

The empty seal skin lies on the shore, carefully concealed beneath the rocks. Barry pales. He cannot – he _cannot_ – do that. "Or you can wallow here," she adds nonchalantly. "I wouldn't recommend it. My companions grow impatient." In response, an eel crackles nearby. Barry jerks away reflexively, but it doesn't touch him. "It's your choice," she finishes. "What say you, Siren?"

He thinks about the Selkie, about the image – a knife upraised, certainty swelling in his chest as he realized that the Selkie was going to kill somebody – and feels resolve burning in his chest. He can do this. It's fine. It's _fine_. Selkies are fearsome creatures, perhaps a little humbling will even be good for this one. Carefully, he holds out a hand, and she clasps his wrist in the manner of Selkies, making something tighten in his chest because – but he firms his resolve, refusing to show his own cowardice before her or the eels. "I'll give you three days," she says. "If you fail…"

Without warning, the water in his lungs transforms, a benign presence thrust into malignant pain, desperate to be expunged. He flails for the surface, black dots crowding his vision. Breaching it, he coughs harshly, aching and sick to his stomach. Teeth chattering in the cold air, he struggles to paddle towards the shore, the sea-woman's words chasing him along.

 _Fetch the skin,_ he thinks, knowing that once it's done – once it's done, he can focus on being human, on being light and free and _happy_.

Restoring order. That's all it is. _I'm helping,_ he tries to convince himself, but the lie doesn't want to take.

 _You have to do it,_ he tells himself, and has to hope that she has no ill intent towards the Selkie. _Or you will die._

And finally, selfishly, he realizes he has something to _live_ for, a jubilation like anguish stirring in his soul.

What a great and terrible gift.


	11. Chapter 11

Before dawn, the dark waves are harder to read.

But when the leopard seal lifts its head above the water, Barry's heart sinks. He'd hoped for a harbor seal, maybe even a ribbon seal, but – a leopard seal. A _leopard_ seal.

Visceral warnings from Merfolk stories stir panic in his chest. Leopard seals are apex predators; they have no known natural predators. They're also equipped with a full set of Siren-tearing teeth and a fearsome temperament to match. On his best days, he is half as fast as a motivated one. His tail makes him half again as heavy as a man his size, but with leopards approaching and even surpassing 1,000 pounds, he'd stand a better chance against a bear, on land, unarmed. His tiny black claws could never hope to penetrate a leopard's thick skin, and his heavy, well-protected tail isn't designed to withstand an assault from such an animal.

Crouched in the pre-morning darkness, Barry sinks low in his secluded rocky grotto, hands shaking. The air is freezing, but it barely touches the cold wave of fear rising in his chest. A leopard seal. A _leopard_ seal. Bile rises in his throat. He swallows, terrified that the seal can hear his heartbeat, even from such a distance. A hundred feet from shore, it still cuts an imposing figure, soulless black eyes fixing on the rocks, patient and striking.

In the water, seals are killers, but on land, they're heavy, sluggish. They're still more than capable of tearing off the hand of any creature foolish enough to approach, but their scope is greatly reduced. _I'm safe on land,_ Barry tells himself, but he knows, with stomach-aching intensity, that the seal is only half the danger. There's a person underneath that has the same potency, weapon in hand, as their underwater counterpart.

Selkies have a well-earned reputation for being one of the most dangerous animals under the sea. Barry hasn't willingly engaged with one in almost a decade – exempting the man under the skin, the seal off-coast and waiting with nostril-flaring impatience for something. _What?_ Barry wonders, tugging his own furskin tighter to himself as a light rain begins to fall. It's already turning to snow, but Selkies thrive in the cold. The leopard seal doesn't even blink, bobbing. Waiting.

It's eerie, and Barry is tempted to simply abandon his task. _I have three days_ , he reminds himself, because his courage is already at an all-time low. Anticipation will only worsen it. _I have to do this now._

Barry sees a ripple in the water nearby and expects the leopard seal to disappear, a cloud of red to flood the surface, but – before he can speculate further, a second, significantly smaller leopard appears, and he reels. It can't be more than a third of its companion's size, and its wide eyes convey youthfulness, strikingly childish next to its fierce-eyed companion. _A Selkid,_ he thinks, nails digging into the rock, heart pounding.

The bigger leopard presses its snout against its companion's, a startlingly affectionate gesture, before both seals disappear under the water. They're gone for so long that Barry fears they'll select a different grotto entirely – something more removed, perhaps – before the bigger leopard surges onto the land. The smaller seal reappears farther away, bobbing in the surf. The bigger one crawls up the shore.

Barry stays low in his hideout, grateful for its wave-washed obscurity. The leopard disappears behind a rock, and scarcely moments later, a man emerges, draped in human furskins, utterly nondescript. The smaller seal dips below the surface and reappears much closer to shore, calling out. It's surprisingly musical, a light, chirruping sound, like a bird crooning. The man kneels in the surf, and the smaller seal appears in front of him, repeating the sound. "I know," he says, pressing his forehead to the seal's. "I'll be back. Be good."

The seal lets out a lower sound, but obediently it sinks below again.

Straightening, Oliver Queen inhales deeply. Then he says shortly, "Come out, Siren."

Tensing, Barry considers disobeying – he still has the advantage, on land, but he doesn't want to press it against a man of Oliver's stature, dangerously close to the Selkie's environment – before resignedly prying himself from his knees and stepping out of the rocky shelter. Oliver doesn't look at him, staring out at the sea until the seal reappears, and something – heavy, and hurting, builds in Barry's chest.

 _That's your kid._

"I don't know what your plan is," Oliver begins bluntly, holding up a hand without looking at him. Barry halts, ten feet behind him but still painfully aware of his own bare feet, his lean stance against Oliver's solid bulk. He turns to face Barry; his eyes are so dark that Barry can see the leopard in them. "But if you bring harm to me or my son, I will kill you," he says calmly.

The hairs on the back of Barry's neck rise. "I will drag you out to sea," Oliver narrates, approaching. Barry can't move – on land, he knows that Oliver is faster, a natural inheritor of land and sea. "And I will tear you limb-from-limb." Stopping within arm's reach, Oliver demands in a low growl, "Understood?"

Barry stares at him, startled by the open admission. He knows brutal honesty is the Selkies' cultural norm, but – the sheer audacity confirms his deepest fear. _I'm in over my head_. Nodding once, he doesn't blink, staring the Selkie down. _Don't look away. Don't show fear._ He's fairly sure his complexion is ashen, but he tries to hold onto the illusion of outward composure, refusing to tremble visibly.

 _A leopard seal_.

Daring to break his stare, Barry lets his gaze slide down, taking note of how tense Oliver is. On the one hand, it helps to emphasize his neck-snapping physicality, but there is something petrified about his posture, bowstring taut. Feeling – a strange sense of bravado, a dangerous sense of bravado – Barry meets the Selkie's gaze, a surge of something vile rising in his chest. _One word,_ he thinks, and Oliver _knows_ , and they wouldn't be having this conversation.

A simple silver-tongued command, and Oliver would fetch him his own skin, pass it over with a smile, happy to serve. Even the mightiest beast cannot resist his voice; even the softest whisper would suffice. _You don't dare touch me,_ he realizes, relaxing his jaw, smiling with all his soft human teeth. Sauntering forward a step, he takes Oliver's right wrist in the manner of Selkies and waits for him to strike back, strike _hard_ , but the other man doesn't even breathe.

A questioning, anxious chirrup sounds from the seas, and Oliver breaks free with a sharp jerk of his arm, casually putting his right shoulder and back to Barry as he looks out at the water. The smaller seal bobs in the water, watching them. Horror poisons the well of Barry's anger. _Take them both_ , a terrible voice suggests, urging him to drink the poison until it can't hurt him anymore.

With astonishing speed, the Selkie pivots and slams a fist into his jaw.

Barry drops like a stone, instantly enveloped in darkness.

. o .

A thunderous headache welcomes Barry back to consciousness.

Groaning, he thinks blearily, _That went well_. Then he realizes he's been tied to a tree, a cloth jammed into his mouth. His jaw aches, but – _no more than I deserve_ , and hates himself for making it true _._ Longing for his sharp little claws, he worries the cloth between his nails, struggling to invoke surrender. _I love being human_ , he reflects, looking around. The forest is quiet – and cold, but he can't see his own breath around the cloth. _Bad approach,_ he resolves, and resumes worrying the cloth.

It takes an uncountable amount of time to squirm and twist and finally tear his way free, breathing hard as he brings his hands around, yanking the cloth out of his mouth. It's part of his own furskin, he realizes. Sighing, cold and frustrated and confused, he jumps in surprise when he hears someone drop something heavy on the ground nearby. It's the leopard sealskin, he realizes – and Oliver crouches above it, looking at him with those dark, dangerous eyes.

"You're not hard to read," he says without blinking, eerily steady. Barry's eyes burn; he has to blink. "I know you want this." He fists the scruff of the skin like a cloak and casts it over Barry's legs. The sealskin is light – much lighter than Barry expects, like a blanket.

Staring up at Oliver and holding his sealskin, Barry can't speak. His jaw aches powerfully; he has to shut his eyes against a sudden throb of pain. _To be human is to suffer,_ he thinks, and aches for a resentment that isn't coming.

 _Wasn't that what you were doing before?_

Opening his eyes, he looks down at the skin and back at the Selkie who owns it. Crouched but still somehow looming over him, Oliver waits. And Barry – Barry knows that he can't take it. He scruffs it and casts it back, face burning with shame. He must look a sight, blue and black bruises mottling his skin; bowing his head, he waits, half-expecting a killing blow. "It's cruel among my kind to strike a child," Oliver says at last.

Barry glances up. Oliver hasn't moved. Feeling compelled to make _some_ gesture of good will, he takes the cloth on the ground and bites down on it. Only clear speech can compel the living; he is permitted to snarl and rasp and even chuckle as long as he never lets out a word. "You aren't a child," the Selkie continues as though uninterrupted, "but you're young enough that…" He makes an unreadable sound, leaving the statement unfinished. "Tell me a story," he suggests flatly.

Barry arches his eyebrows. _How?_

"You've moved to these waters recently," Oliver begins. Barry shakes his head. "You've been here more than a year." A nod. "Two years." A second nod. This time, Oliver releases the skin and holds up both hands, fists closed. He lifts his left thumb and forefinger. Then he holds up a third finger expectantly. Barry nods. When he reaches the tenth, he slowly closes both fists, and starts anew. It's challenging, and he hesitates on the eighteenth year before nodding. He nods for nineteen, too, suddenly certain. Oliver holds up the tenth finger, and finally Barry shakes his head.

Mulling over that for a moment, Oliver asks, "How old are you? In decades," he suggests.

This time, Barry spares him the effort, holding up two fingers. Oliver stares. "Single years?" he prompts. Barry flashes seven fingers, then eight, before shrugging again. "Twenty-seven," Oliver surmises. "Give or take." Barry nods his head back and forth, agreeing with the principle. "You _were_ a child," he finishes.

Barry nods slowly. _Yes._ His head throbs; he shuts his eyes again. The sun is still low, but even its muted pink tones hurt. _I need to get back to the water,_ he thinks blearily. Then Oliver asks, "You were a Selkie?" Eyes closed, Barry shakes his head. "Mermaid?" Another head shake. "Human?"

Opening his eyes, Barry looks at Oliver and tugs the cloth out of his mouth. He lets a rueful close-mouthed smile play out across his face. Then he nods, very deliberately.

 _'_ _Were.'_

 _That's the perfect word for it._

 _'_ _You were human.'_

Taking up the sealskin in a hand, Oliver pushes himself to his feet. Ablaze in yellow light, he looks mythical, almost godly. Holding the sealskin like a fresh kill, he cuts an even more striking figure against the jaunty-legged, bleary-eyed Siren half-sitting, half-lying on the forest floor. He stalks off, skin in hand.

Barry stays put. He's cold, tired, and sorer than he's ever been, but he still finds the strength to push himself to his feet. A heavy splash nearby confirms Oliver's departure, but Barry doesn't pursue it. Retracing his steps up the path, he weaves a little as he walks. _Three days,_ he thinks, stumbling into a tree, using it for balance. _Three glorious, terrible days left._

Suddenly, twenty-seven years seems painfully finite, an endless lifespan condensed into a single breath. Every step sends pain up his legs, sharp, needlelike pressure against his feet. _To be human is to suffer_ , he muses again. Devastated, defiant, he finishes, _I'm not human._

He looks around him, but the birds are silent this time of year, and whatever creature of the Earth that might hear him has made no appearance. The ache in his chest is so profound he wonders if it won't kill him, and almost wishes it would. _Make the choice for me._

The universe does not oblige him. Frustrated, he groans, a low, deep rumble building in his chest. The edges soften as he runs out of breath. It's a strange feeling – breathing is familiar but running out of breath still catches him off-guard – so he draws in the deepest one he can and lets it out in a single arching cry, a musical tone that seems to carry from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, erasing every ache and pain and discomfort in between.

He feels – young, and light, boyish and so _alive_ that it makes laughter bubble in his chest. He doesn't need to say a word as he sings, crooning heavenward, a familiar melody warbling from his throat. The notes dance over each other, chasing outward until he is sure even the mountains must echo the wordless song.

Letting silence fall, he listens to the echo of the song, the last notes fading slowly.

He has never felt half so strong, half as _alive_ as he does in that moment, standing proud and strong, utterly unmarked. _Let there be life_ , he muses, listening to the soft wash of waves in the distance, a quiet backdrop to the song still resonating in his chest, carrying on in a hum. Walking along, scarcely conscious of it, he drifts closer towards the shore, softening his tone, softer, softer, softer still, until it is a thing for himself alone, and then nothing at all.

In the silence, he steps out to the water, letting it wash over his feet, and the wash feels cool but not freezing against them. He lets the hum build again, and the water warms against him to a summer-like softness. His pale grey-blue feet turn pink again. Half-drunk on the feeling, he can't quiet himself, can't bring himself to silence in the morning light, and it is there, ankle-deep in the ocean that raised him, crooning affectionately, that the Siren Who Is finally sings again.

. o .

Iris waits for him along the shore, waits until her eyes are burning with fatigue and there is a lump in her throat, and then –

Then she hears it.

Soft, sweet, salubrious, surreal – the song reaches her.

It isn't singing – it can't be. It is a sound she has never heard before, a sound from another world, a sound entirely other and completely at home on her earth. The lilting staircase of notes draws her towards it, promising something – something grand, something extraordinary. She wanders down the grey shoreline until she can feel the notes resonating in her chest.

Then she sees him, standing in the water, exulting, and knows it's him.

It is like a glimpse of creation, like a dream being born into life. She steps closer, steps soft, nearly silent, overpowered by the sound. Facing the horizon, he doesn't look at her, crooning skyward, a soft, wordless, mystical song pouring from him. Tears do not come to her eyes, even though she is sure they are the only response; for the joy in her heart is overwhelming, and as she closes the distance between the man secluded from all his kin and herself, she feels a powerful surge of affection, of love, of _joy_.

Capturing him in her grasp, she wraps her arms around his waist. Without looking at her, he lifts his voice, crying out like he wants to bring the stars out for her. She holds onto him, and his song, cheek pillowed against the back of a warm human shoulder, daring to believe in the myth, and the reality.

 _You are so beautiful_ , she thinks, and aches, because she cannot bring herself to interrupt the song to tell him.

And then it ends, seemingly all at once, leaving her ears ringing in its absence. "It's beautiful," she whispers, tears finally dripping from her eyes. She squeezes him, and he rests a wondering hand on top of her arm. "It's beautiful, it's beautiful, you're beautiful."

He strokes his thumb over her wrist, so softly, so sweetly, and says nothing. He won't turn to look at her, doesn't seem to dare. "You're amazing," she insists, pressing her cheek to the back of his shoulder. "You're absolutely amazing."

He shakes, and she feels him pulling away. Frowning, she holds onto him a moment longer, and with verve bordering on desperation he breaks free, like it's burning him to stay. Without looking at her, he splashes a few paces away, trembling visibly. She understands the shyness and doesn't press, but when he drifts farther, like he might remove himself entirely, she follows. "Don't go," she says.

He pauses, bowing his head. He still hasn't looked at her. She aches to make him look at her. "Henry," she tries, but it doesn't feel right, it _isn't_ right. "Tell me your name," she insists, her own voice bright, friendly, hoping to draw the same warmth out of him. "Please," she says, stepping closer again, heedless of the breathtakingly cold water at her calves. "Please."

At last, he turns to face her, and his eyes are golden. They dim to sea-green as she watches, and she reaches for him, tangling her arms around his neck. She rocks with him, like a dance, his hands steadying her waist. The shore is so quiet at this hour, the ocean so perfect – and she aches, suddenly, to hold onto this moment forever.

He walks her backwards gently, never letting her fall, and on the grey shore she feels the stone beneath her feet, cool and grounding. He presses her back nearly to the berm, and then he releases her, and holds up a hand. _Stay._ Then he walks backwards towards the ocean, hand lowered but gaze imploring her to obey.

There is magic burning in her soul, but she holds her place and his gaze as he backs away. When he is waist-deep in the water he pauses, still watching her. Expectantly. Anxiously. Then he lifts his voice in song, the same soft, crooning, wordless melody that makes her ache to be close to him again. It is a warmth like a lullaby and a familiarity like the name of her soul, calling to her, but she stays put. He drifts a little farther away, letting the hum taper off as he slips below the water.

She waits, and waits, and waits for him to resurface, terrified that he won't – and then he's back before her, surfacing mere feet from her and smiling up at her, a big, warm, human smile. He stands, dripping water, and holds up both hands, stay-stay, and she humors him as he drifts away from her, wandering down the shoreline. Crooning, crooning, like it is breath to him.

She doesn't follow, and when he turns and sees her, far away, he laughs, a full, rich, delighted thing that carries to her. Without waiting for him to invite her back to him, she closes the distance between them, running into his arms. He lifts her effortlessly, spins her around once like he can't help himself, and sets her down, eyes twinkling and positively _purring_ with joy.

He's so happy, and light, and warm, and real in her arms, and she dares to believe that this wonderful little everything between them can last.


	12. Chapter 12

Together, they sit on the shore and watch the sunrise.

Barry is warm enough that the cold does not bother either of them and more comfortable than any of the rocks, Iris lies beside him, nearly on top of him. They watch golden light suffuse the world, Barry's arm draped around Iris' shoulders. He strokes her shoulder with his thumb and aches for ten thousand more tomorrows, voicing none of his desires but for the soft, liquid hum in his chest. _I want this with you_ , he thinks, and knows it is foolish, but if he has but three days to live or die, he will enjoy them. _I want this forever._

He thinks about the empty ocean, the vast and wonderful ocean, and rests his chin on top of her head. If only he could shed his tail in the manner of a Selkie, wandering freely whenever he pleased! It makes a lump form in his throat, imagining another life, where he would return to the water full of stories. There would be others like him who would welcome him with open arms into their lives, because Selkies seek out kin. It would not matter if he was a humble monk seal or a monstrous elephant seal: he would be free to cavort with any Selkie he pleased. After all, underneath all the accoutrements, they were all still human.

The notion brings tears to his eyes, tears he does not let the Princess see. Even the Merfolk, for their permanent tails, are like their land counterparts. They build magnificent structures in the corals and kelp, forging whole communities with thousands of other sea animals. It is to visit a great city, to wander among a Merfolk community. Barry has never been farther than the outermost edges, a wistful passerby to a life he cannot partake in, but he has often wondered what it might be like to return home somewhere, to have more worldly possessions than the stones that washed ashore.

 _I do not have those anymore,_ he thinks, recalling the jolt of surprise and pain that struck him when he saw his empty cave. Nearly twenty years of collecting stones, vanished. _I did not need them,_ he tells himself, but he doesn't want to listen to his own empty consolations.

Once, it brought him something like joy, to sit in the center of that dazzling little cove and behold his own handiwork. If he could not be part of a community, then he would forge something worthy of one, right here. And the ocean, always a gracious parent, provided him with the pieces that he needed.

Even among the barren shoreline, full of nothing but grey stones, he found the rare colored ones, and held them up to the light in astonishment.

Heart welling with emotion, he remembers the first time he plucked a blue stone from the water.

 _Two days before, the Manta Ray, his companion of nearly two years, had passed away._

 _Its soul, like those of all creatures, was then uplifted, even as its body sank to the ocean floor. A boy of thirteen, Barry had surfaced to look up at the night sky, wondering what happy life awaited the Manta Ray in that glorious world above the stars._

 _The paintings of countless other creatures were already impressed upon that beautiful black canvas. The splendor of it was phenomenal. For a lonely Siren, the most compelling feature was a simple promise: companionship, unto and after death._

 _Far from home at the time of the Manta Ray's passing, Barry had felt a profound urge to return to it. Unbound to any one place, he had followed the familiar, familial stars to his home. For days, he traveled. Like a bird, he carried that memory with him, a compass leading home._

 _At any time, he was never away for more than a year. Whenever he ventured out for too long, he returned in an almost feverish state, convinced he had heard his mother calling his name or his father laughing on the shore. When he returned, his parents were never there. He knew they weren't, but his ears still heard them, and his soul still urged him to go._

 _Even years later, when nearly every memory of those human days faded, Barry remembered the sickness that had claimed them, the sudden and terrible hand of death sweeping over his home. By some accident, some foolish fancy of fate, he survived. He was then placed into an orphanage. Even before he arrived, he was prone to wandering off._

 _On that last day, Mother wasn't there to call him back and Father wasn't around to walk alongside him on the shore. Barry climbed down the rocks and walked the shore alone. And when the ocean called him, he went._

 _After, Barry stayed close to the Siren Who Came Before Him. He marveled at the beauty of the world under the sea and the extraordinary gift given to him. What other creature knew the language of the soul, a song unlike any contrived in imitation? It was magnificent, otherworldly, divine. With the Siren Who Came Before Him, Barry felt safe and guarded and overwhelmed with affection, as though his Father's dearest friend had arrived to take care of him. Those were the happiest days of his life since his parents' passing. Indeed, they were some of the happiest, altogether._

 _Then the Siren Who Came Before Him began to succumb to the urchin poison coursing through his veins. His final days were a sobering reminder to Barry that even though they were powerful animals and masters of themselves, there were some things even a Siren could not overcome. An errant encounter with death could fell even the grandest of creatures, and Sirens were no exception._

 _In his dying hours, the Siren Who Came Before Him rose with him to the water's surface and told him of the world above the stars. The Siren Who Came Before Him told him that it would be Barry's task to call the living to that beautiful place. All he had to do was lift his voice to them, beckoning them to follow, and they would oblige. And oh, the beauty of that place! No suffering, no pain, no loneliness or grief. Only the joy known to the stars. It seemed like the greatest gift on Earth, being able to escort others to a place where they could be happy forever._

 _But the Siren Who Came Before Him had a warning: before Barry could rise to that happy place, he would have to find a successor before the hour of his death. If he failed, he would forever be trapped to the floor of the world, bound to carry its song. His song was a gift, and a great burden. Barry felt at once humbled and afraid that he had been chosen to carry it._

 _"_ _When the day comes," the Siren Who Came Before Him told him, "you must find the Siren Who Comes After You. Or you will never know that happiness."_

 _And then Barry was alone._

 _Tail scarred from his unhappy encounters with the living, Barry drifted listlessly offshore, aching for guidance. He floated on his back, gazing up at the stars and begging them to let him join them. He had never harmed a soul, never been the monstrous thing that the Merfolk and Selkies thought he was. He was good. He would gladly give all the hundreds of years he had to live if only he might join them._

 _But the stars couldn't hear him, and the warning of the Siren Who Came Before Him was heavy in his heart._

 _Sinking beneath the waves, he found the stone near the waves. It was tiny, smaller than the littlest of his black claws. He picked it up delicately between them. He'd never seen its kind before – even as a child, such trinkets were extraordinarily rare. Turning it over in his palm, he looked around, but there were no other creatures here, in these cold shallow waters._

 _Tucking it between his teeth, he brought it to his empty little cove, the fissure in the ocean floor that was becoming smaller by the year as he grew, and let it sit on the wall, capturing the ocean light. And it threw color across the whole space, and he laughed in delight, because – oh, what the Merfolk wouldn't give for it!_

 _And so, for nearly twenty years, he scoured the shore and overturned rocks, and assiduously, affectionately collected the pretty blue stones, until one day…_

Exhaling deeply, Barry shifts in place, feeling guilty for his enjoyment of Princess Iris' presence.

In his many years of collecting them, he had never given away a single blue pebble. For fun, he would cast the little grey stones, even the little green stones found in surplus quantities, but he never surrendered the blue ones. He knew it was selfish, but who could ever love those little blue stones as much as he did?

Then he saw her, wandering the grey beach, and after days of pining endlessly for her to notice him – he longed for even the tiniest acknowledgment – he plucked one of those irreplaceable blue stones from his wall.

And finally, he found something he loved more holding onto them.

He tucks his cheek against the top of her head. _It was worth it,_ he thinks, hugging her to him. _I'd give anything to spend a day with you._

It sours something in his stomach, knowing what he has already promised for this one – and what he stands to lose if he fails to uphold his end of the bargain. Holding onto Princess Iris, he tries to picture himself handing over Oliver's sealskin to the sea-woman. All he can see is the seal-pup surfacing and watching them on shore, anxious and hopeful at once, and his stomach twists.

Trapping a Selkie on land is far from the cruelest affliction imaginable, but he can't bear the thought of taking a child's parent away from them.

 _There are others,_ he thinks, a dark relief pouring over him. _It doesn't have to be Oliver._

Selkies are sociable creatures. They almost never travel alone. They know what happens in deep water to lone seals, no matter how ferocious.

 _Find another one,_ urges a vicious voice inside of him _._

It won't be easy – he already feels sick thinking about how much time it will consume, _looking_ for one; there is a reason why sailors and shorelanders generally do not believe in such fantastic creatures – but he has everything to lose. If he looks hard, and quickly, he can find one. He can. And if he doesn't know whose skin it is, he never has to worry about meeting the eyes of the Selkie he strands and wondering what he's taking away from them.

Duly convinced, he squeezes Princess Iris gently, an imitation of a hug, before pushing upright slowly. She lingers, and he pushes up a little, attempting to convey a sense of urgency without unsettling her. _She can't find out about this,_ he thinks, and hates himself for needing to hide how much of a monster he is from her. A second, firmer nudge finally persuades her to let go.

She rises, albeit more slowly than he would expect. Grimacing – _you're playing with fire_ – he follows, stepping out of reach when she extends her arms to wrap around his waist. He takes a few steps away, unthinkingly, and she follows. Stiffening, he pauses, mind clearer, and turns to face her. He holds up a hand, urging her to stay, and she lifts both eyebrows slightly but holds her ground as he walks away. Away, away, away, nearly a hundred feet down the shore.

 _A Siren's song is irresistible_ , he thinks, heart pounding in his chest because she can't resist following him if she's – she's –

Then he looks down at his own hand in horror, because he didn't tell her to follow him. He told her to _stay_.

Near faint, he holds up his hand, palm skyward, and cups his fingers towards himself: _Come here._

Smiling, Princess Iris obeys, closing the distance between them at a pleasant stroll. Pale, he holds up his hand, palm out, and she halts.

Tangling his fingers in his hair, he doubles over and screams silently in agony.

. o .

Standing maybe thirty paces from him, Iris longs to approach Henry, but her feet are stuck to the stones.

She feels paralyzed by the intensity of emotion pouring from him. His scream is completely silent, but she doesn't need to hear him to see his anguish play out across his face. She doesn't dare approach him, afraid not for herself but for him. He'll run, and the last thing she wants is for him to leave. _Wherever you go,_ she aches to tell him, _I'll follow._

A low, deep-seated groan builds in his chest, and she can't resist it, closing the gap. He doesn't hug her and uplift her as before, laughter as pure as his soul on his face: he staggers back, like he's afraid of her. "Henry," she says softly, trying to reassure him. _I'm not going to hurt you._ Holding out a hand, she tries to clasp his hand, but he steps out of reach. "What's wrong?" she begs, and he shakes his head quickly, like he's trying desperately to clear it.

When he looks at her, a tear drips down his cheek. She reaches out and brushes it away, aching for him. He captures her hand gently in his own, taking her free hand and holding them both, looking into her eyes with those beautiful sea-green ones, flecks of gold still visible. He swallows hard. And then, in a voice like liquid honey, he murmurs, "Iris." Squeezing her hands, he says in a choked voice that is still sweeter than any she's ever heard, " _I'm so sorry_." He drops her hands and presses one to his mouth, muffling a sob.

"What for?" she asks gently, reaching out to cup his elbow, longing to hold him. He's shaking hard, almost vibrating in place.

"I'll fix this," he babbles, dropping his hand, not listening to her. "I'll fix this, I'll – I'll fix this." She caves, hand settling in the crook of his right arm. "I promise," he whispers. She believes him with every fiber of her being, stroking his skin reassuringly. He pulls away from her and she tangles a hand in his tunic, holding on. Meeting him, step-for-step. "I'm so sorry," he whispers again, and she wraps her arms around him and pillows her cheek on his chest, not understanding but trusting him, utterly, entirely.

"Henry," she says softly.

She feels it more than hears it: "Barry."

Something clicks in her chest, a perfect sense of peace. Leaning back to look at him, she cradles his face in her hands. "Barry," she clarifies, and it sounds soft and sweet to her. She aches for every moment she didn't know his true name, loving the way it sounds on her tongue. "It's all right," she tells him, brushing another errant tear away. "Whatever it is—"

He lets out a thin, pained noise. Even that is strangely beautiful. She aches to hear him, content to listen to him babble for eternity if he'll let her. _Why did you hide your voice?_ she muses without concern, grateful that he's letting her hear it now.

"I'm a Siren," he blurts out, and she blinks, because –

"Oh." A lazy smile spreads across her face; she slides her arms around his neck, hands intertwining there. He reaches up and tries to gently pry her arms away, but she holds on tighter, knowing he'll leave if she lets him go. "I've heard of Sirens. I thought they were just stories," she admits. He blinks once, staring at her. "It's said they have a voice to die for," she muses, and squeezes his neck lightly.

He doesn't speak, doesn't blink. It dawns on her, but she doesn't break free, doesn't panic. No – she just hugs him closer, telling his shoulder in a warm, approving croon, "It's worth dying for."

With frantic movements, he pries her off himself, holding her at arm's length, almost firmly enough to hurt. "Barry," she warns, and his grip lightens. "Barry," she repeats, and smiles at the way it makes him – melt, a little, some of the sharpness, the urgency vanishing from his eyes. "Barry, Barry, Barry."

"I'll fix this," he says mechanically.

"Nothing is wrong," she says sweetly, and it feels true.

His face is ashen, his fingers clammy on her arms. "Iris," he pleads. "Please – please."

She doesn't know what he wants, and he can't seem to bring himself to elaborate. "What?" she asks, more teasingly than anything, because what more could he want for? Everything is perfect. Even the coolness of the air and the sharpness of the grey rocks beneath them feels perfect, because he's there with her. "I love you," she tells him, and means it.

He breaks free of her, clutching his hair in both hands again. "I don't want it," he spits, and she sees blood accompany the words, and wonders when he bit his tongue. "I don't want it, I don't want it, I – " Tearing at his tunic with sudden fury, he roars, "I _don't want it_." Panting, he succeeds in ripping it over his head, and still he strains for breath, a deep growl in his chest, animalistic in nature. He looks wild, then, like he might snap, and she knows she should fear him – he's a substantial size, and a _Siren_ – but she trusts him.

Suspended in the scene, she doesn't turn when she hears the call of her own name, but she does watch Barry's shoulders tense. He's hunched over, and quiet, now, and when he straightens his jaw is rigid. "Princess Iris!" Eddie repeats, jogging over. "There you – are," he finishes, cocking his head at Henry and venturing closer. "Everything all right?" he asks seriously, a hint of iron in his tone.

Barry lets out a low, deep sigh, and Iris steps forward, sliding a hand around his arm. "Barry?" she asks him. He grimaces.

"'Barry'?" Eddie repeats, frowning. "I thought his name was—"

"Barry," Iris finishes firmly, addressing him.

Huffing, Eddie steps closer. He sounds edgy. "Right, then. _Barry_. It's awfully brisk to be out here in such … undress."

Iris rolls her eyes, leaning against Barry's side. He doesn't move at all, holding himself rigidly. "Eddie," she warns dryly, "you're starting to sound like my father."

"Are you well?" Eddie asks Barry, ignoring her. He reaches surreptitiously for her other arm, and Barry slips out of her grasp.

Shaking his head vehemently, he folds his arms over his chest. Eddie gently closes a hand around her wrist. "What happened?" Eddie asks warily, looking at Barry.

Barry bows his head, stepping back. Iris tugs, but Eddie doesn't let go. "What did you do?" Eddie says, and the iron is there in force.

Barry actually kneels, like he can't bear to stand before them. Iris aches to kneel in front of him, to be closer to him, but Eddie tucks his arm around her waist. "Let me go," she tells him, but he tightens his grip and Barry buries both hands in his hair.

"Did you hurt her?" Eddie demands. Barry doesn't move, frozen.

" _No,_ " Iris answers sharply, because if Barry won't defend himself she _will_.

"Did you?" Eddie repeats emphatically.

Slowly, Barry nods.

Eddie inhales sharply. Iris has the distinct impression he wants to hurt Barry, but he can't risk it with his grip on her. "Come with us," he orders instead, and Barry rises placidly. "Make a single move towards her, and I will have you executed."

Nodding obediently, Barry doesn't move towards her, even though Iris insists, "Barry—"

"In front," Eddie orders, and Barry steps around them, giving them a wide berth, before slowly walking towards the castle.

Iris follows him more than Eddie's grip on her arm. "Eddie," she says, "stop it."

Neither man responds. _Barry's a Siren,_ she corrects, and smiles, distracted, because what a beautiful thing, to love a _Siren_.

They climb the berm and Barry stumbles a step, righting himself carefully, and she aches to help him. _How clumsy would I be, in his place,_ she muses, watching him stride along. She allows herself an indulgent moment, admiring the smooth span of his bared back, powerful muscles tensed, anxious.

Barry halts, suddenly, and Iris sees the sword on her father's belt before she sees the rest of him, looming in front of Barry. He kneels again, head bowed, and her father looks at him, and then Eddie holding her, and draws his sword. "Speak," he demands, and Barry lowers his head a little more. "If you wish to keep your head—"

Shuffling forward, Barry bows his head further. The gesture makes rage and terror burn in Iris' chest, perfectly exposing his neck. _Take it_ , his body language pleads, and Eddie's distraction permits her to break free, nearly throwing herself over Barry's back. He grunts in surprise, but doesn't move, cold underneath her.

"Iris," her father begins sternly.

Iris ignores him, hugging Barry around the middle. "If you wish to harm him, you'll have to go through me first," she says firmly. He pries at her hands, still holding back – she knows he could break them if he had to, but he refuses, and her grip holds true. _I won't let you die._ "He's done _nothing_ wrong."

"He admitted to harming her," Eddie tells her father in a low voice. "I do not know _how_ , but –"

"Take him to the dungeon," her father orders, sheathing his sword.

Rothstein, her father's chief guard and a powerfully built man, effortlessly lifts her off Barry while a pair of his other attendants grab an arm in each hand. "Up," orders Scudder.

Barry lifts himself obediently to his feet. "Stop this," Iris demands, and struggles in earnest to free herself as Scudder and Monteleone haul him off. The King precedes them, and the town is quiet but earnestly watchful as they proceed. "No!" Iris shouts.

Rothstein holds her until they are out of sight, long after they are gone, and Eddie finally says, "All right," and he loosens his grip. She makes a break for it, but he instantly grabs her wrist, assuring, "It's all right." He walks alongside her, Rothstein clearing a path. "It's all right," he continues soothingly, and she wants to kick him, to scream at him, but they're moving towards the castle, and she wants to be with Barry more, refusing to impede her forward movement. "Whatever he's poisoned you with—"

Iris grinds out, "He has _not_ poisoned me—"

"Nothing will hurt you," Eddie carries on, infuriatingly calm. "We'll make sure he pays for his crimes. I promise."

. o .

Under the sea, a Caecelia gazes upon a Siren's knife, watching his shadow in the blade as a pair of men drag him on his knees.

 _I want to see,_ Nep hisses, exultant and delighted, while Tune crowds over her left shoulder, radiating satisfaction at the sight. Obediently, Lisa turns the blade more towards Nep, allowing it a clearer view of the Siren's shadow being tossed into a space.

The spell only lets her see the Siren himself – Nep and Tune both brought back more than enough blood on them to make the enchantment work – but it's still informative.

"Poor soul," she muses, watching the shadow curl up into a ball on its side.

 _A Siren as a man is a sad thing,_ Tune muses, but even it sounds more amused than anything. _What next?_

She smiles. "That's entirely up to him," she says sweetly. "He has three days." The shadow Siren slowly uncurls, pushing itself to its knees. "For now, we enjoy the show."


	13. Chapter 13

_You can lie down and die, or you can try to save her._

Barry presses at the wooden door with the palms of his hands, feeling it out. If only he had claws! he thinks ruefully, raking feeble human nails against it. He doesn't deserve freedom, deserves whatever punishment the King sees fit, but – _I have to try to save her_.

She may be free upon his death, but –

A shiver works down his spine at the thought of the alternative.

 _Would you follow me, even then?_ he wonders, pressing his right shoulder against the door experimentally. _Unto death?_ Straining, he plants his feet and pushes hard. _I won't let that happen._ He growls softly, digging deep. _I won't._ Stepping away from the door, he throws his shoulder against it. It makes a loud thump and shivers faintly but does not surrender. Emphatically, he repeats the gesture, until his shoulder is blue with bruises, until he is snarling with exertion, and he gains momentum, using every inch of the space allotted to him.

Thump. Thump. _Thump_.

"Haven't you heard of iron latches?" drawls a masculine voice nearby. "You'll break your shoulder before you break down the door."

Huffing, Barry ignores the voice from nowhere. Thump, thump, _thump_.

"A feisty one," the voice says wryly. "I like it. What's your name?"

Barry huffs, pausing with his throbbing shoulder against the door. _Barry_.

When he doesn't respond, his companion goes on. "Not a talker, huh? I can work with that." Elaborating, he explains, "The Wests, they're good people, but a free spirit like myself doesn't appreciate boxes and _cages_ much."

Barry aches to inquire, but keeps his mouth shut. Silently, he prods: _Who are you? How did you get here?_ Then, even more generally: Where _are you?_

"Name's Snart," the stranger drawls, and Barry thinks he may be in a room just a few paces down the hall. "Don't need my first name. You want out?" The door suddenly swings open, revealing a man, maybe half again as old as he and crisp blue eyes. "It's cute how they think any prison can hold me," he says lazily, swinging a set of keys on one hand. Barry stares, mesmerized. He clasps the keys after a moment, looking Barry up and down. "What'd you do? Kill somebody?"

Barry shakes his head slowly. No. Never. _Not yet,_ he corrects. His stomach hurts. _I won't hurt her. I won't let anything bad happen to her_.

"Hm," Snart muses out loud. Barry looks over his shoulder, aching to take off the way he came. He has to find a sealskin before dusk on the third day, or he will die, and if he dies, then – he has no idea what will become of Iris, but he can't let chance alone dictate her fate. _Chance is unkind_ , he thinks, and sours, correcting: _chance is cruel._ "I could use a strong set of hands," Snart says, and Barry frowns. "After all, you owe me one," he adds, jangling the keys.

Barry bares his teeth a little before closing his mouth again. Snart still has the decided advantage, standing just outside the doorway: he could easily shut it before Barry crossed the threshold. His throbbing shoulder assures him that he won't be getting out on his own any time soon, and he has no idea when the next stroke of luck may arrive.

Sighing, he nods and holds out a hand. Snart shakes it once firmly before stepping back, allowing Barry to enter the hallway. "There are two guards at the main door," Snart narrates, striding along. Barry follows alongside him, refusing to be towed like a puppy. "Scudder and Monte," Snart elaborates. "Scudder's one of my own. The one with the beard," he says, and moves a hand around his chin informatively. "Monte's more loyal to his employers." He nods at Barry, adding dryly, "I don't like to get my hands dirty, and it would look bad if Scudder attacked his fellow man."

Barry pauses. Snart stops alongside him, adding firmly, "You don't have to kill him. We just don't want him to slow us down." He starts walking again. Barry scrambles forward, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him to a halt. "If you get cold feet, there's a nice cell with your name on it," Snart says without looking at him.

Tugging again, he waits until Snart turns to face him before making a helpless gesture with his hands. _I don't know how to fight._

Snart eyes him, then turns back and keeps walking. "If you get cold feet, there's a nice cell with your name on it," he repeats simply.

Rubbing the back of his neck anxiously, Barry follows him after a beat. As they approach a door near the end of the hall, their steps grow silent, and Snart does not speak to him again. Instead, he pauses at the closed door, looking back at Barry and waiting for Barry to step forward. He holds up a hand with three fingers raised. _Three._ He folds one inward. _Two_. A second. _One._

Then he knocks on the door, and calls out loudly, "The King's men need finer locks."

There's a brief scuffle of movement, and then the door is yanked open, and the smooth-faced man growls, "Snart—"

Barry lunges forward, and the bearded man – Scudder – shouts in surprise while Monte twists in his grip. He's surprised at how strong it is, sure and steady, and wonders if Snart was wrong, after all: _maybe I could break down the door_. Monte jams a fist into his stomach and he curls over, but he re-secures the grip even as a second man begins beating on his back.

A quick, almost exasperated look at Snart only gets him a wink. _Play along._ Growling, he struggles to maneuver Monte into a position conducive to slowing him down. He's never been on the offensive side before, but he knows what worked whenever the Merfolk captured him, and he puts Monte into the same arms-behind-his-back hold with an effort. "The King – will have – your head," Monte grunts, as Scudder continues barking behind him, tugging on his shirt without force.

Barry locks his arms tightly around his chest, crushing it a little, and Monte scrabbles at his arms. They slide into place underneath his chin, gripping there until, mere moments later, Monte's full body weight sinks to the floor. "Nicely done," Snart congratulates, as Barry releases Monte, swallowing hard.

He goes to crouch down beside the man, to confirm that he's okay, but Scudder snags him by the shoulder and gives him a firm push forward. "Go now, or I won't cover for you," he says shortly. Then he crouches beside Monte, and Snart grabs Barry's wrist, tugging him along.

They move fast, almost too fast for his clumsy feet to keep up with, but Snart's grip is firm enough that it keeps him focused. _Don't think, just move_ , he suggests, and obliges. When Snart pauses in front of an unbroken wall, Barry waits anxiously for him to move on, startling when the wall suddenly pushes inward under Snart's hands. _How are you doing that?_ he wonders but cannot ask, following Snart into the perfect darkness that lies beyond.

It gets worse when Snart slips around him and shuts the door – extraordinarily conceived, and how on _Earth_ – before saying in a low voice, "Once upon a time, there was a war in our pretty little town. Some of the mole holes were never found." He gives Barry a firm nudge forward. He can't see a thing, and the earthen walls are claustrophobically close. "Go on," Snart orders, and he has no choice, now – with Snart at his back, standing between him and the closed door, there is only darkness ahead.

Pace by pace, he wanders into the belly of the beast, a hand on the dirt-wall. He has to duck his head at times, and then all the time, and finally he cannot pass even hunched over. When he gets down on his knees, the crawlspace is still nauseatingly tight, but he cannot see it, and so he ventures forth as though he has more than enough room to maneuver. _You're all right, it's all right_ , he tells himself, breath catching in his chest. _Keep moving forward._

Then, seemingly without warning, the path terminates in a wall. "Up," Snart suggests, a disembodied voice nearby, and Barry slowly lifts himself up, and finds more headspace. It's another tunnel, vertical and narrow, but reaching upward he feels smooth wood under his fingertips. Pressing up, he lets light into the space, blinking at the sudden change as he slides the wood off to one side.

"About time, Snart," a voice growls, deep as a bear, and Barry shies away from the opening reflexively until Snart prods his calf firmly. Clawing up for purchase, he stiffens in surprise when two sets of hands grasp him, one under each arm, before two women haul him up and out.

Snart clambers out behind him unaided, saying simply, "I like to take my time."

"I like to finish a job before I die of thirst," the other man retorts moodily. "You've been gone for days."

"I'm a sinner for fresh cheese," Snart drawls. "The Wests happen to have it in great supplies. Your jealousy does not suit you."

The man huffs and rises from a chair. Barry does not move in the grips of his captors, recognizing that the only way out of this is to go along or hurt people. "So. Who's this?" the man asks, looking him up and down. "Kind of scrawny for a Rogue."

"Careful, Mick, you'll hurt Rathaway's feelings," Snart says. A lean man, lounging in a chair near an empty hearth, crosses one foot over the other on top of a short table and says nothing. Snart snaps his fingers, and both sets of hands release Barry. He wobbles a little, unsteadied, and the bear-man – Mick – huffs.

"Rathaway's got a head on his shoulders," Mick says, looking at Barry challengingly. "What's this runt got?"

"Power," Snart says.

Mick advances on Barry. Tempted though he is, Barry knows better than to cower. He holds himself straight. "Really?" Mick asks coolly.

"Take him down if you don't believe me," Snart drawls.

Barry tenses, and the people on either side – a man and a woman – step back, giving him space. "Any rules?" Mick asks, and Barry's blood runs cold.

"No weapons," Snart says easily, and Barry wishes he shared the man's confidence, because Mick is exactly the same height as he, and substantially broader at the shoulder.

"Don't need any," Mick assures, and that's the last warning Barry gets before he slams a fist into his gut.

Some instinct kicks in as Mick pounds on him, prompting him to retaliate. With four quick jabs to Mick's chest, he has the bear-man backing off, breathing hard. "Damn," Mick says, holding an arm across his ribs.

Barry frowns, his hands trembling as he lowers them. _I'm sorry._ But Snart just says, "See?"

"Yeah," Mick breathes, lowering his arm and frowning at Barry. "That's one hell of a catch."

"I thought he might be useful," Snart agrees.

"He's cute," chimes in Rathaway. Barry ducks his head, cheeks pink.

"Adorable," Snart agrees in a drawl. "And he's agreed to help us with our latest transaction."

The woman to his right laughs. "Is that what we're calling it now?" Looking at him, she adds musingly, "If my heart didn't already belong to Sammy, I'd be interested."

Folding his arms across his chest, Barry tries to make himself small, but it's hard, standing in the center of the room with five gazes upon him. He aches to ask: _what's the job?_

The woman to his left says in a subdued tone, "We already lost Clay. I don't feel like burying another man this month."

There's silence for a long moment. At last, Rathaway says simply, "The Zolomons are powerful, not invincible."

Even the name makes the hairs on the back of Barry's neck stand. "James was powerful," Snart agrees, "Lilah is smart, but Hunter is simply mad. Removing him from this world and reprieving his mother of that great burdensome wealth will do a service for this world."

"Helps that the dog put a bounty on half our heads," Mick growls.

"Half," Rathaway adds smoothly. Mick snarls at him.

"Boys," the woman to Barry's right warns, sounding more amused than upset as the two men glower at each other. "Must we _fight_?" She trails a sly hand across Barry's forearm, confiding in him, "A reserved man is far more handsome than a brute." He gently pulls his arm away, glancing imploringly at Snart, but Snart just lifts his eyebrows at him. _You're an adult,_ his gaze challenges. _Handle it yourself._

When the woman strokes his arm again, he steps fully away. "Leave him, Rosa," Snart advises and she sighs.

"Sammy is so _orderly,_ now," she grieves. "Playing the part has rubbed off on him. I prefer my men more … _rugged_."

Barry realizes, for the first time, that he has no upper furskin – the warmth radiating from him compensates sufficiently that he doesn't feel compelled to snag one, but it still leaves him feeling painfully vulnerable in the room full of – _Rogues,_ Snart called them. "We're getting off-topic," Snart says shortly. "The Wests are fond of Lilah. They'll continue to tolerate her son for her appearance. Scudder tells me they'll be dining with the Wests this evening before departing for home. At that point, it will no longer be economical to strike."

"If we kill her son in plain view, we'll _all_ have a bounty on our heads," Rathaway points out.

"Good," Mick grunts, glaring at him.

"Bad," Snart corrects, holding up a remonstrative finger. "Added precaution: those of us with bounties will focus on the Zolomons' home, rather than the Wests'. You'll relieve their wealth while we take care of Hunter."

At last, Rathaway looks sobered. "That leaves…"

"You, me, Scudder, and the kid," Snart finishes. Barry glares, but Snart continues easily. "Mick, Rosa, and Shawna can alleviate their coins from their restless imprisonment."

"I'd rather throw a punch," Mick growls.

"I'd rather not," Rathaway pipes in.

"Neither of you will," Snart asserts. "And Scudder can't without setting off suspicion." Looking at Barry, he smiles. "I'm more of a rearguard than a point-man. Your presence alleviates the need for me to step outside of my natural role."

Barry swallows. Mick scoffs. "You're going to let him run point?" he demands. "He'll turn on you."

"There are six of us," Snart reminds coolly without taking his gaze off Barry. "And one of you. You run? You'll wish I left you in the dungeon. You endanger this mission in any way, and there is not a place on Earth we will not find you."

 _I bet I could find a few,_ Barry thinks, mind spiraling to that deep, blue, empty ocean. He doesn't give voice to his claim, nodding in acquiescence. _It's just like Monte_ , he thinks, but he knows it's not, because they're not talking about slowing Hunter down. They're talking about _killing_ him.

 _Run_ , a little voice whispers, begging him to act before he runs out of time, to drop everything and find the sea-woman and plead for forgiveness, help. This is getting out of hand, this is getting out of _control_ , and he's on a precipice he doesn't dare jump from. He aches with sudden fervency for the dungeon, for the _ocean_ , but – _tonight. This is happening tonight. I can spare one evening of three for this._

Looking surreptitiously around the room, he realizes that his involvement won't halt their plans, nor will it alter the Zolomons' dinner invitation. _The Wests are in danger,_ he thinks, and breathes in shallowly, because he's nearly certain he knows who the Wests are.

The King, the Queen, the Prince – and the Princess.

. o .

At the castle, Eddie releases Iris, and she runs.

Escaping him and Rothstein both, she sweeps down to the dungeons, moving as quickly as she can. They follow, but she doesn't care, only cares about finding Barry, finding Barry, and she nearly trips over Scudder and Monteleone on the floor. Monteleone groans, rousing, while Scudder speaks to him, asking if he's all right, assuring him that they'll sort things out, and then he looks up at Iris and frowns. "Princess Iris," he greets. "What are you—"

"Where's Barry?" she asks. She sees a flicker of something like recognition in Scudder's eyes before he douses it.

"Who?"

"Where's Barry?" she repeats, furiously jerking her arm out of Eddie's grip. Without looking at him, she snaps, "Touch me again and you will regret it."

"Iris," he begins, but she slips past Scudder and Monteleone into the long corridor of cells. There's a wide-open door near the end of the hall, and Iris runs to it, heart in her throat. _Barry_ , she thinks, halting outside the empty threshold. Her heart sinks; an ache builds in her chest. "Barry?" she calls, but there's no one there.

Something – a dreamy sort of impulse, like muscle memory – compels her to retrace her steps. She doesn't pause at the guards, doesn't pause for anything as she cuts down the hallways, venturing deeper and deeper into the castle's underground maze. _Barry_ , she thinks, and follows the trail until she reaches a dead-end, a blank wall, heart sinking to her toes. She presses on the wall, but it doesn't move, and a furious scream builds in her chest. She does not let it into the world, sinking back against the stone instead, painfully, terribly certain that he is near and she _can't reach him_.

"Barry," she whispers, like she can make him appear, but the hallway is dark, and quiet, and empty but for her.

. o .

Barry's stomach growls, but he doesn't voice a complaint.

Agonizingly aware of every passing second, he tries to focus on Snart's instructions rather than his own trepidation. He frowns when Snart hands him a set of dark-colored furskins in the same dress as Scudder and Monte. "Look the part," Snart advises. Obediently, Barry puts the furskins on, trying not to think about why he's doing any of it. The plan, as he understands it, is fairly simple: Hartley will persuade Hunter to step aside, Barry will subdue him, and Snart will deliver the killing blow if Barry doesn't do it first. Barry has absolutely no intention of delivering it first, so Snart flashes him a smile and holds up a wicked-looking knife before tucking it back in his belt under his own furskin.

Barry thinks about that wicked knife carving him up and decides he's willing to risk losing a day to keep all of his limbs intact.

Besides, he – he _has_ to find Iris. He has no idea what it must be doing to her, being kept away. The Siren Who Came Before Him never addressed what would happen if a creature were somehow prevented from following a Siren; as far as he was concerned, it was simply impossible. So, if he must don the right black-blue uniform and listen to Snart's instructions, then so be it.

He'll do whatever he has to, anything he has to, to protect her.

"Don't let them look at your face," Snart advises him. Barry ducks his head slightly, averting his gaze, and Snart warns, "But don't look too shy, either. You're a guard, not a child." Looking up, Barry meets his eyes, and for a moment is sure that his mysticism shows, for Snart freezes, before the moment passes and Snart grabs the sides of his upper furskin, smoothing it gruffly.

"You do this right, you'll be family, kid," he tells Barry. Barry hates the emotion that wells up in his throat, nodding once and refusing to rub his eyes. _Stop it. This isn't yours. None of this is yours_. Snart turns back to address the rest of the Rogues, but Barry stays rigid, standing behind him and trying to convince himself that this is _right_ , this is _fine_ , this is what he _must do_.

 _Kill, kill, kill_ , a soft voice says, and he thinks about the bodies that will lie at his feet – the Hunter, the Selkie, and the Princess – and straightens his shoulders, bracing himself for battle.

 _I won't hurt anyone I don't have to,_ he resolves, and it leaves an eerie void for the darkness to lounge in.


	14. Chapter 14

"Francine, my darling," Lilah Zolomon effuses, hugging the other woman. "It has been too long."

"It's lovely to see you again," Francine West says. Squeezing Lilah gently, she releases the woman and looks at her son. "Hunter," she greets, extending a hand.

The man smiles and bows, kissing her hand. "My Queen," he replies. "An honor, as always."

"Please – you need not observe such excesses," Francine assures.

Hunter just smiles. "It does not trouble me." Looking around her, he lifts both eyebrows. "Are you childless?" he asks the King.

Joseph grunts. "My children are … adventurous," is all he says. "We were quite pleased you returned our invitation so soon."

"We absolutely wouldn't miss it," Hunter says, draping an arm around his mother's shoulders. "Isn't that right?"

Lilah nods, musing, "The weather turns this time of year – we were fortunate not to find snow on the way."

"I wish you the same fortune on your journey home," Francine says, extending a hand and stepping farther into the foyer. "Come, let us be more comfortable by the hearth. These halls are too cold."

"But they're magnificent," Hunter compliments, looking around and adding, "Father's estate wants for the simple eloquence of your own."

"You flatter us," Francine teases.

"Good," Hunter rumbles. "We would never wish to offend such magnificent hosts."

. o .

Hiding in a closet, Barry elbows Snart lightly, inclining his head towards the door. _That's the man you have a qualm with?_ he wishes to ask. _He seems … pleasant._

Snart lifts his eyebrows uncomprehendingly. Barry scowls, stalking off towards the window.

The side room is small, but it's sufficient for two men to wait for the second stage of their plan to unfold. The sick feeling in Barry's stomach is back in full – or, perhaps, that is simply the incessant growling making its presence felt. He's hungry. He's been daydreaming about an apple or a piece of bread all day, salivating at the thought. _I love being human,_ he thinks, sighing to himself, planting his hands on the sill and looking out.

Darkness closes in, and he knows he should be more frightened, but he's entranced by the soft white flakes of snow falling. _The weather turns on us,_ Snart mused, but he sounded more pleased than disappointed as he held out a hand to capture a flake on his palm. Barry mimicked the gesture, humored. It was nice, being alternately ignored and drawn right into the Rogues' family. They were effusive, loud and violent and affectionate all at once. As a boy, he'd never met any humans quite like them, and though he supposed their equivalent must exist somewhere under the sea, he'd never encountered them.

Snart snaps his fingers lightly, and Barry returns to his side, listening to the muffled speech behind the door. He lifts his eyebrows expectantly, making a gesture with a hand, _now?_ Snart shakes his head. Then, eyeing Barry, he stuffs the flat black hat a little farther on his head, covering his eyes. Barry growls and reaches up to push it up a little more.

"They know who you are," Snart reminds him in a low voice that doesn't carry. "Stay hidden."

Resigned, Barry tips his hat down just the tiniest bit further. It's not out of sorts – the snowfall provides an excuse for such devices – but it makes _him_ feel decidedly out of place. So much … frill-ery. Are all humans like this? He doubts it, and yet it's not his place to question it. _I'm the outsider._

He tucks his thumb between his teeth for want of something to do, gnawing on the fingertip. Snart taps his shoulder sharply, and he hears the King's son laughing outside the door. "I could best you at any sport, any day," he challenges.

"Chess," Rathaway invites immediately, stirring a bray of laughter from Wally.

"You cheat!"

"How can a man cheat at _chess_?"

They're gone within moments, disappearing down the hall. Barry feels uneasy, knowing how supposedly dangerous the youngest Zolomon is and how close he is to nearly the entire West family.

 _Where's Iris?_ Barry wonders anxiously, at once hopeful she is far, far away and aching for her proximity.

He doesn't have much time to ache, however, as Snart nods and pushes the door open, stepping out into the hall. Barry follows, his shoes making more noise than he would like. "Stay," Snart suggests, planting Barry in front of a door. Barry frowns but obliges, keeping his head down low. "Good." Then Snart is gone, and Barry watches him leave, vanishing down the hallway, heart in his throat.

 _I don't want to kill anyone_ , he thinks, folding his arms across his chest, feeling cold.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, shifting occasionally on his feet. No one comes by, although he hears laughter rise and fall a good distance away. Conversation drifts indistinctly towards him, but strain though he might, he can't pick out the words.

It reminds him painfully of many nights at sea, aching to be part of something he could never embrace. He listened to the sailors gambol with great hopefulness, wondering when one would catch sight of him and invite him to join them, but it was foolish and impossible, and eventually his mind gave up on it, even though his heart refused to.

He shifts on his feet again, starting to feel distinctly hungry again. Would that he could join the West family for dinner! he reflects ruefully. Finally human, and he's still trapped in the same box he was as a Siren. There's a certain terrible irony to it all.

Exhaling deeply, wondering if Snart would truly notice if he left, Barry startles when he feels a pair of arms wrap tightly around his waist. Heart pounding, he swallows, grasping for her and hugging her close, aching, anguished, so relieved it hurts. Her head fits under his chin easily, and she clutches the back of his furskin, trembling faintly. He strokes her back soothingly, keeping his head inclined, his face partially hidden.

"Iris," he whispers against her hair. "Iris, you have to…" He sighs, tucking his cheek against the top of her head. There's nothing for it. "I'll fix this," he repeats softly. Pushing back gently, he tells her in the quietest voice he can, "There is a very dangerous man here. He has killed. He will kill again if I do not stop him."

She reaches up, tangling her arms around his neck, squeezing gently. "Nothing my Siren cannot handle," she says serenely, and he swallows.

"I'm not that strong," he admits softly. "I – I don't know what I'm doing." He presses his forehead against hers. "Please hide. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm not leaving you," she says, stroking her thumb against his neck. "Barry."

He shivers involuntarily. God, he loves the way his name sounds on her lips. Except – no, no. _Stop getting distracted._ "Please hide," he entreats again. "I'll find you, I promise. I'll find you when it's safe."

"I'm safe with you," she says, swaying lightly with him. It's so easy to go with it, his soul aching with affection for her. "There is nothing you cannot do."

He huffs a little laugh. "There is a lot I cannot do." Pushing against her gently, he pleads, "Go. I'll find you."

She presses against him. His heart stops for a moment. "This man," she says. "Who is he?"

He can't speak, overcome. _I sincerely love you_ , he thinks, and hates that it's true, tears pooling in his eyes as he holds her tightly.

Then he smells … something smoky.

Something terrible.

He blinks and pushes her back firmly. She latches onto his furskin, but his heart is pounding as he lifts his head, looking around. He knows that smell.

He _knows_ that smell.

 _Fire._

Heedless of the consequences – indeed heedless of anything besides that smell and the urge to _go now, now, now –_ he takes off at a dead sprint towards it.

. o .

In the water, fire doesn't really burn. It heats up Barry's skin, occasionally singes it, but the moment he slips under the waves, the bright, killing light vanishes. The smoke burns his mouth and throat and eyes, but he can hold his breath forever and breathe underwater. Fire cannot kill a Siren, not easily, not in the water.

But on land, it is an entirely different animal.

The corridor is aflame, tapestries smoking and wood cracking underneath them. Barry finds Rathaway first, facedown on the floor, and for a moment he fears the worst, crouching beside Rathaway and turning him over. A spectacular blue bruise pools under his jaw. Grimacing sympathetically, Barry takes Hartley's arm and hauls the groaning man upright. He aches to ask what happened, what _happened_ , but he doesn't dare, crouching to get a better hold on the man, putting him over his shoulders. "Strong," Rathaway slurs, and Barry huffs, because he's so much weaker out of water, but when he is needed, he is what he needs to be.

"He's very strong," Iris agrees, and Barry nearly drops Rathaway for surprise.

Thankfully, his grip proves surer than his surprise. He doesn't think about direction, seeking only _away, away from the burning ship_. He finds a window almost by accident and fumbles to open it, smashing a hand through it when he can't. He howls as pain splinters across his hand, dozens of shards sprouting from his skin, red spilling over it. _I'll fix it later_ , he decides, trying to focus through the sudden, stinging agony. Shakily raking a clearing from the wreckage, he throws Rathaway onto the snowy grass beyond with a soft _thump_.

Looking at Iris urgently, he bends close to her, speaking directly into her ear so as not to be overheard, "Stay with him. I will be back."

She looks at his bloody hand, at the grimace on his face, and strips off part of the lower half of her upper furskin, wrapping it tightly around his palm. He groans, but it stops the blood from dripping on the floor, and he considers that a success. " _Go,_ " he urges, pulling back, and she crawls through the gap with rather more grace than the thrown Rathaway.

He runs, runs like his lungs aren't on fire, runs like _his_ life depends on it, knowing that he only has seconds to save them. _They're drowning_ , he thinks deliriously, and pushes his way through a pair of broad doors into the dining hall.

The whole family, smiling and conversing, taper off abruptly, looking over at him in alarm. The King, the Queen, the Prince, the Zolomons, the Raymonds – he swallows, his bloody hand resting on the doorway before he pulls it back sharply. The man who can only be Hunter rises to his feet, one hand resting on his mother's shoulder.

 _You have to run,_ he aches to tell them but cannot open his mouth, doesn't dare speak. He staggers into the room. The Prince is on his feet, too, now, and the King asks, "How did you—" because the hat is gone, and Barry must look exactly as ragged as he did before. Without words, he begs them to _run, run, run_.

There's a deep, terrible splintering sound, and he sees Hunter's hand tighten on his mother's shoulder. "We have to go," Hunter announces shortly. The table freezes seconds before a fiery beam crashes at Barry's back. He staggers into the dining hall, stunned.

Ronnie barks, "Fire!" and the others finally respond, lunging from their seats as the whole room seems to growl and snarl warningly. The King and Queen depart through the door at the opposite end of the room, followed by the Raymonds; the Prince follows briskly, holding it open for the Zolomons. Hunter escorts his mother through it, looking back at Barry and saying something to his mother before urging her through the doorway.

He runs back across the floor, big, powerful, loping steps, and Barry remembers the first time he ever met a Great White Shark, those soulless black eyes fixed on him, mouth yawing open as it advanced with stunning speed, and then—

Zolomon tackles him. "Hello, Rogue," he says, and Barry pushes up against him because the heat is becoming unbearable, flames licking up the wall directly behind him. "Always causing trouble. It's time you burned." He presses Barry back hard, and Barry snarls and kicks at him, thrashing for all he's worth, howling as Hunter grasps his bleeding hand and crushes it. "Always causing trouble," Hunter repeats, and Barry feels darkness closing in on his vision as the man drives the shards deeper into his hand. "You thought I didn't see the tracks in the snow? _I'm not a fool._ " Then he yanks Barry up hard and smashes him back down, once, twice, thrice, and rises, disappearing.

Twisting on the floor, Barry pants, lungs aflame, head spinning. _Is this what it is like?_ he wonders deliriously, struggling to find any purchase. He howls in pain when his weight comes down on his bloody, mangled hand. _Is this what it's like to die in a fire?_

He pushes himself upright desperately, but he cannot get to his feet, crawling and sliding across the space. _Has my tail reappeared?_ he muses, because neither of his legs want to move properly, his panting breaths refusing to bring him air. The fire is at his back, his sides, crunching through wood, devouring the room, and he has no idea how much time passes as he crawls for the door.

Then he feels a hand grasp the back of his furskin near the neck and hears a muffled voice say, "Come on, kid."

He tries to obey, to sit up, but he can't make any of his limbs respond, so he just lets Snart drag him across the floor.

The cold outside is painful, and Barry flinches. Snart whistles down at him, letting go of his collar and untucking the lower half of his face from a furskin, exhaling white clouds. Barry lies, cheek pressed to the snow and breath coming in short pants, for a short eternity. He fists a handful of grass in his good hand, tries to pull himself up, and then his full weight comes down on his bad hand, and he's gone.

. o .

Barry comes to with a yell crackling in his throat, ripping his hand out of someone's grasp and surging upright. With frantic energy, he paws at the glass in the skin, tearing out whole shards while someone shakes his shoulder hard, hey, hey, _hey_. He doesn't stop until he can't find any more sharp points in his palm, heaving for breath and looking at – Snart? _What happened?_ he wants to ask, but he can hear the crackling at his back, and panic propels him to his knees.

"We have to go," Snart prompts, helping him the rest of the way up, but he tugs away from Snart, aching to – dive into the water, get away from the _heat_ , when did fires get so _hot_ – blinking deliriously at the castle on fire. There's shouting nearby, and Barry's instinct to help overpowers his need to listen. He chases the sound, ignoring Snart's shout behind him, running blind through the snow, chanting silently, _Iris, Iris, Iris, Iris_ —

He hears whining, a high-pitched, harried sound, and skids to a halt, dropping to the snow and grunting in pain. The sound carries on, almost like screaming but – smaller, somehow, and he follows it, unafraid of the frames licking the frame of the visible windows. The door scalds his hand, but he puts his shoulder to it, sucks in a deep breath, and throws his weight against it. It cracks and splinters inward, disobedient and difficult to maneuver, but Barry finds a crawlspace.

 _Where are you?_ he asks silently, crawling on his belly across the floor. The smoke is blinding, but he can still hear the sound, faint and terrified. Using his elbows to propel himself forward, he startles violently when something small bumps into his face. _What in the blue—_ He reaches out, draws it towards himself, and realizes that it's a dog, like Baloo but much, much smaller. _Hi,_ he thinks, bringing it to his face. _It'll be all right._ He tucks it into his furskin, like his father once did. Cradling it to his chest, he shuffles backwards, turning around and fumbling through the darkness for that glorious pocket of air beyond.

He hears more whimpering, and exhales, shuffling towards the sound and grabbing both tiny dogs. _Little warm dogs,_ he muses, holding onto them, fiercely protective, ready to burn in the blaze if only to keep them safe.

Thankfully, it doesn't come to that – he finds his hole in the wall, miraculously, and crawls through it, gagging for breath. Flat on the snow, he releases both dogs in hand. The dog in his collar squirms free, and he lies in the snow listening to the voices, to the shorelanders and beached sailors alike, the royal and the pedestrian, and closes his eyes, because he's just so goddamn _tired._

 _I can't save them all,_ he thinks as the dogs whimper nearby. _I can't – I can't—_

He thinks about that golden vision, a silhouette flitting restlessly, desperately between the sailors. The shadow-Siren strained to keep them from sinking lower, but too soon, they stopped moving. Then they all sank, and he sank with them, too exhausted to even _try_ anymore. _No,_ he thinks, hissing low, agitating the very blood in his veins, pushing himself to rise again. _No one dies._

He hears a shout, but his ears are ringing, and he can't make out the word. Still, he feels Iris crash onto her knees next to him, _knows_ it's her even though he can't see her. He reaches out for her because please, please, please be all right. Her hands settle on the back of his shoulders gently, his front pressed to the snow, and she helps him turn over. Blinking blearily up at her, he struggles to see through red, watering eyes, but there's nothing about her appearance that makes him fearful.

Reaching up his good hand, black with smoke, he cradles her cheek. "'ris," he croaks. His eyelids sink shut against his volition; he struggles to pry them open again, insisting in the barest whisper, "Iris."

"I'm here," she promises, catching his hand as it falls and settling it on his chest. She draws his head into her lap, and he closes his eyes, basking in the false promises.

 _This is what love feels like,_ he thinks, resting his clawless hand against her knee, breathing shallow. _I just– I just want it to be real._

 _I just want it to be real._

. o .

A countless time passes in the snow. Iris doesn't even feel the cold, only conscious of Barry's still, hurting form in front of her.

Then Oliver crouches beside her. "Iris," he says slowly, laying a hand on Barry's shoulder. "Let me help." His eyes, barely open, flick down to the hand, and then up to Oliver. She swears he pales, and then his head tips to the side with a soft moan, eyelids closing. "Come on," Oliver says carefully.

Iris doesn't want to let go of Barry. She doesn't want to think about him disappearing and never coming back. But she senses the gravitas of Oliver's tone, and so she nods once. Without further prompting, Oliver gets a hand under Barry's shoulders and knees and lifts him with a grunt. He doesn't question it when Iris follows them into the darkness. Sure-footed and confident even at night, Oliver walks away from the castle. "You should be with your family," he grunts. "I won't hurt him."

"I'm not leaving him," Iris replies seriously.

That gives Oliver pause. He doesn't turn to her, but he asks the darkness in a low voice, "Do you know what he is?"

A warm smile unspools across Iris' face. "He's a Siren."

Oliver doesn't move, posture tense, breathing shallow. "How did you find out?"

Iris smiles. "He sang."

Oliver growls. "He _sang_ to you?"

"No," Iris says. "He sang to the ocean."

Oliver inhales, exhales. He keeps walking. He doesn't ask if Iris will follow; she just does. What else would she do? "What do you know about Sirens?" Oliver asks at last.

"They're magical."

Shortly, Oliver agrees, "Mm-hm."

"They – well, their voices, they can…" A lazy, helpless smile crosses her face. "They can sing. Beautifully."

"Mm-hm." Oliver descends the shallow slope to the sea carefully. Iris follows close at his side. "Who else knows?"

Iris shrugs. "You're the only one who asked," she says.

He nods slowly. He doesn't say another word until they reach the grey-stoned shore, and then he splashes ankle-deep into the water, still holding Barry. "Do you know what happens to creatures that Sirens ensnare?" Oliver asks.

Iris frowns. "What are you doing?"

Oliver wades deeper into the water. "Do you?" he insists.

Iris joins him in the sea, gasping at the cold. "I don't—"

"They drown." Unceremoniously, Oliver drops Barry into the water. Iris lunges forward, but before she can make a move, Barry surges out of the water. Oliver hooks a hand under Barry's right shoulder and hauls him back up, ignoring the low hissing coming from him. He gets both hands under Barry's shoulders and drags him backwards like that. "It's rather – peaceful," Oliver grunts, as Barry nails him hard in the stomach, still fighting him. "You just follow them into the water, and never come back."

Iris feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the water splashing against her calves. "Their song," Oliver continues, hauling Barry ashore, growling low, animalistically low, when Barry continues fighting against him, "is irresistible." Iris doesn't move, stranded in the shallow water, watching Oliver slam Barry against the rocks. "Do you know what that means?" he continues, pinning Barry down by the shoulders.

Barry's face is locked in a snarl, gaze blazing golden as he grips Oliver's arms with black-nailed hands. "It means it cannot be resisted," Oliver elaborates shortly, and yelps loudly when tiny black claws dig into his skin. "All right," he snaps, and Barry growls back, more animal than human. Oliver releases him, and he launches himself at Oliver, tearing at him, tooth and claw.

" _Barry!_ " Iris shouts, and golden eyes fix on her – dead, golden eyes, a monster crawling slowly to his feet and regarding her like she's barely real to him. "What's wrong with him?" she whispers.

He sways, staring her down, and Oliver stands, cheek bleeding freely. "This is a Siren," he says, snagging Barry and pinning his arms behind his back before he can strike out. Barry thrashes, screaming, and it sinks like knives into Iris' bones, a terrible, agonizing sound. She covers her ears, and still it infects her, bearing down on her. Oliver locks an arm around Barry's throat, and the screaming quiets, settling deeper into his chest until it's almost soundless.

Iris' heart pounds. "Don't hurt him," she says, but her conviction is faltering.

Oliver tightens his grip. "Shock," he explains, "isn't just a human phenomenon." The way he says _human_ distinguishes himself from it. Iris wants to pursue it, but she's too fixed on splashing forward, instead, as Barry scratches at Oliver's arms. Already, the claws are retreating into black nails. She rests a trembling hand on one and the black fades to pink. Some of the gold retreats from his eyes. A thin whine strangles in his throat, and Oliver releases him. He drops to the stones, coughing and scrabbling at his throat. Shaking, hunching inward, he's scarcely changed outwardly, but he looks more human.

"Sharks go into a feeding frenzy if there's too much prey in the water," Oliver says. Iris hesitates before crouching beside Barry, keeping a little distance between them. He doesn't look up from the stones, breathing hard. "They start biting anything that moves, including each other." He puts a hand on Barry's shoulder, but Barry doesn't lunge for him, doesn't change positions at all. "This is not a creature you want to love, Iris," he says quietly.

Barry looks up, and it's Barry, again, sea-green eyes hazy and full of apology. The cuts on his hand are gone; the burns are already fading. "He will be the last and only thing you love, until the day he kills you," Oliver narrates, and a tear drips from Barry's eye. Iris can't move, aching though she is to reach out and cup his face, to lie: _I don't care, I don't care._ "It might be an accident," Oliver permits. "A moment of weakness, a forgetful instant. But an accidental death is still a death."

Barry rakes his hands down his face. His visceral, performative agony is too much; she crowds forward, hugging him. He doesn't move his hands, doesn't hug her back, shaking in her arms. It reminds her so much of that moment in the woods it makes her sick. How can he be a monster? She reaches up, tangles a hand in his damp hair, holding him, begging the universe: _how can he be a monster?_

He tucks his face against her shoulder, so warm and human and devastatingly real in her arms, and she holds on. "This affection is part of the enchantment," Oliver says gently, and Iris hugs Barry fiercely, refusing to let his words be true. "Willing prey is easier to kill than unwilling prey."

"No," Iris says into Barry's hair, refusing to let go of him.

"It's a mechanic," Oliver continues. "An accident of evolution. You don't love him. Not like this. This … this is the monster luring you into the water."

Barry nods, but Iris grasps the back of his neck, trying to gently hold him still. "No," she whispers.

"You have to let him go," Oliver says. "You have to try, or you will die."

"Then I'll die," Iris whispers.

Barry shakes his head fervently, breaking free of her, kneeling back and looking at her with raw, honest devastation. He looks at Oliver, imploringly, and Oliver sighs. "Give me a moment." Then he walks off, climbing the berm and disappearing into the woods.

Barry doesn't say a word for a long time, long after Oliver's footsteps fade into total obscurity, and when he speaks, his voice is raw from more than the fire: "Iris…"

"I would rather die than stop loving you," Iris says seriously.

He shakes his head. "It's not _love_ ," he tells her, holding her hands to his chest. "It's … it's everything he said. It's a curse. It's a killer."

"You're not a killer," Iris whispers.

Barry shudders. A tear drips down his cheek. "I don't want to be," he admits quietly. "But I – Iris, what I've done – what I've done is unforgivable. Even if I can fix it – even _when_ I fix it," he amends fervently, trailing off.

He lets go of her hands. She reaches up and cups his cheek, brushing her thumb over it. He leans into her touch, closing his eyes, and she aches to stay with him, here, freezing and sore and scared and so in love it hurts, forever. "How can I love you so you believe it is sincere?" she asks softly.

He exhales deeply, lifting his head and blinking slowly. She can still see flecks of gold in his eyes, but they're soft, sea-green and sincere. He brings her hand to his lips, kissing it lightly.

"When I have reversed this curse," he says at last, "you can love me by letting me go."


	15. Chapter 15

"What does it mean?"

"Hm?" Barry doesn't look up from the stones, feet resting in the freezing wash.

"To be … ensnared," she repeats, leaning against his right shoulder, her own feet beside his.

He huffs softly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand. "It means …" He sighs, and she rests her head on his shoulder. "It means you can't walk away."

"That hardly seems like a punishment."

He makes a soft sound. "No, that's the terrible thing about it…" He nods out at the dark water. "I won't drown. You will. I live there. You live up here. Do you understand?"

"It must be marvelous," Iris muses. "Under the sea. What's it like?"

Barry huffs in amusement. Closing his eyes, he visualizes it. "Empty," he says at last. She strokes a hand against his left hip. "But it's … a very peaceful empty. Up here, there's … so much to _look_ at. So many … _people_ , and things, and…"

"Are you truly alone?" Iris prompts softly.

He swallows. "No," he lies. "There are … Merfolk, and Selkies, creatures of all kinds. Thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe. It's a very big ocean."

"So why come here?"

He makes a soft sound. "I … I like it here," he says. "Why did _you_ come here?" he challenges, nudging her. "To the shore. In the heart of winter."

"I like it here," she echoes, squeezing his hip. He swallows, unable to speak. Musing, she asks, "Tell me about them."

"Who?"

"The Merfolk. The Selkies. The creatures of all kinds."

His stomach aches. "We should get back to the … to the place where you live," he says quietly.

"Two souls will not be missed for an hour," Iris tells him.

"Princess…"

"Siren," she teases, and his heart skips a beat. "You're quite handsome," she muses, nudging his feet with her own. He blushes fiendishly, shifting them out of reach. "I like the tail."

"It's very practical," Barry agrees, swallowing hard. He aches, then, to slip into the water fully, to take her with him and show her exactly how beautiful it is under the waves, but – _she'll drown._ Shuddering, he draws his legs up to his knees, wrapping his arms around them. "I don't want to hurt you," he tells his knees.

She readjusts her grip, hugging him from the side, cheek on his back. "I trust you."

"You shouldn't," he mumbles.

"Give me a reason not to," she challenges.

He reaches out carefully, and though his nails are human-soft again, he rakes them lightly against her back, attempting to convey the ferocity that lies beneath them. She just shivers, and he lowers his hand, shaking a little in return. _I could hurt you_ , he thinks despairingly, but she trusts him not to, and it makes his heart feel too big for his chest. "Iris," he says instead, softly. "I would sooner have cut out my tongue than put you in this position."

"I like being here," Iris tells him.

He sighs deeply. "You like being here because my curse compels you to like it. You would be rather furious with me for keeping you from your family and risking your death in the cold."

"It is cold," she agrees, but doesn't move. "Why don't you warm us up?"

Barry presses his forehead to his knees, unable to look at her or the ocean. He lets a low, rolling hum build in his chest, and warmth fans out across his back. It's just a soft sound in the night, barely radiating past them, but it renders the ocean waves silent, the whole world silent for him but that song, that beautiful, irresistible song. _I am as ensnared as you_ , he muses, losing track of time.

"How can something this wonderful be _bad_?" Iris asks him.

Barry hums, shifting in her grip. She's remarkably warm against him, the cool air scarcely touching them. Releasing his own legs, he lets them flatten in the water; it feels warm against them, too. "The only thing in life we can control is our own soul," he says at last, lifting and lowering a foot rhythmically, making little waves in the water. "To take that from you is evil beyond imagining."

"I'm not soulless," Iris points out, sounding humored.

"No," he agrees, reaching up to rub his own face. "You're…" He rises. Her grip slides down his waist, resettling around his leg. She looks up at him with a wry smile. He aches with affection for her. "You're … kind, and trusting," he finishes, stepping back from her grip. Before she can reclaim it, he holds out a hand, and she smiles and takes it. He pulls her up and admits softly, "You're the most extraordinary person I've ever met."

She laughs and slides her arms around his waist, rocking with him. "You've met, what, ten people?" she teases.

"Several dogs," he adds gravely.

She leans up and kisses him on the cheek. "You are very cute," she tells him sweetly.

He blinks at her, reaching up to rub his cheek. It feels warmer than usual. "I …" Swallowing, he finishes, "I will do everything I can to deserve your kindness."

"You saved my life," she reminds him. He flushes. "Twice, now. Surely that qualifies for something."

He makes an indecisive sound, flexing his formerly serrated hand against her back. "That was entirely your action," he assures. "I merely … opened a … a …." Frowning, he asks sotto voice, "What's it called?"

"Window," she prompts, amused.

"Window," he repeats, trying it out. It clicks in his chest. "What are these?" he asks suddenly, tugging on his furskins.

"Clothing?" she asks, lips upturning in a small smile. "Tunic," she adds, tugging lightly on his upper furskin. "Trousers." She knocks her foot gently against his calf. He very nearly falls over, stepping back to regain his balance.

"Tunic," he repeats, tugging on the upper – clothing. "Towsers."

"Trousers," she clarifies.

He tries it out. "Tow—towsers."

She smiles. "Trow," she begins.

"Trow."

"Sirs."

"Sirs."

"Trousers."

He makes a soft sound. "Tr— _trow_ -sirs," he repeats.

She pats his arm. "Nearly perfect," she says with a smile.

He smiles back, unable to help his own warmth at pleasing her. "I have so many questions," he admits, grasping at her hand. She intertwines their fingers. He looks down at them, amused. "I – I have _so_ many questions," he repeats apologetically.

"Proceed," she says with great dignity and a twinkle in her eye.

"What do you … what do you _call_ this?" he asks, gesturing around himself.

"A beach?"

"No, I kn – this … this _land_ ," he clarifies, tapping a bare foot against the rocks.

"The shore?"

He blinks, cocking his head. "Are those separate?"

She shrugs. "Not particularly."

"What is this place?" he rephrases.

She smiles, comprehension dawning. "Annapurna."

"Annapurna," he repeats. It sounds lovely. It stirs something visceral in him, bringing tears to his eyes.

"Hey," she says softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. "What's wrong?"

He can't reply because …. He swallows. He doesn't _have_ to be silent anymore. "I … remember it," he says at last.

She cocks her head at him. "How old are you?"

He reflexively holds up his hands, then clarifies aloud, "Twenty-seven?"

"You say that like it's a question," she muses.

"I'm not sure," he admits.

She strokes his cheek once. "Is it too personal to ask how long Sirens live?"

He huffs. "That's … entirely up to fate," he admits. "The Siren Who Came Before Me was nearly three hundred."

Her eyebrows rise to her hairline. "My people live but a hundred years, under the most exceptional circumstances."

"I know," he says. _I remember._ "It's more … curse, than gift," he assures her. "I am … certain, that one hundred years or less is good."

"But think of all the _books_ one could read with two hundred more," she teases.

He blinks. "Books," he repeats.

She releases him, surprising him, but before he can wonder about that aloud she holds out her hands, side-by-side, palms up. "Those things you knocked over at Linda's shop," she clarifies.

He ducks his head a little. "I'm sorry."

"No harm," she assures, stepping forward again and crowding his space, sharing his warmth. "I take it you don't have books?"

He shakes his head. "Sailors … drop things, but no books."

"They dissolve in water," Iris says. He blinks uncomprehendingly. "Disappear," she clarifies.

 _Wow_. "That's extraordinary."

"It's really not," she muses.

"It's extraordinary," he insists.

"So no books," she says. He shakes his head. "What do you do?" she asks.

 _Float, mostly._ He shrugs. "Swim."

Her laugh is pure magic. It makes his heart feel warm. "Well, now I am truly envious of this life you magical lead," she says.

"It's nothing," he dismisses.

"How long can you hold your breath?" she asks.

He can feel her voice against his chest. It makes it very difficult to speak. "I don't need to breathe." Then, chest rising and falling once, he explains, "In the water."

She pulls back, looking up at him in amazement. "Really?" He nods. " _That's_ extraordinary," she says. "I would love to stay below the waves forever. It's so peaceful."

"It is," Barry agrees, looking out over the water. His stomach aches again.

She tucks her cheek against his shoulder. "You could take us there," she tells him. His chest feels tight for an entirely different reason. She flattens both hands against his lower back, adding, "It would be magical."

He can barely speak. "You would die."

"I will die as assuredly on land," she reminds him.

He pulls away. "I will not deprive you of even a single day of that life," he says fiercely. "Not an hour. Not a _minute_."

"A minute is so little," Iris tells him, stepping towards him. He steps back. "Would you miss it?" she asks, looking out at the sea. "A single minute of your life."

He gazes at her, unblinking. _If it's a minute with you? Yes._ He nods, saying nothing.

"Your tail," she muses, distracted, as she nods down at his feet. "It hasn't grown back." She looks up at his eyes, bright and inquisitive in the darkness. "Why?"

He swallows. Reality grabs him by the neck and shakes him hard. "Because I have two more days."

She brightens. He looks away. "Two days?" she repeats. He nods mutely. "That's wonderful." When he doesn't look at her, she asks, "What's wrong?"

He hates the emotion that rises in his throat, nearly preventing speech. "I never should have come on land." He looks at her, kneeling and taking her hands. "I never wanted to hurt you," he says. "Ever."

"Barry." She tugs on his hands, but he doesn't rise, so she kneels. "You haven't hurt me." He lowers his gaze to the rocks. She reaches up and cups his face. "You have not hurt me," she repeats firmly, his gaze finally sliding to meet hers. "The only wrong you have committed is believing that you have."

He slinks out of her grasp. She needs to – she needs to _understand_. "Stay," he orders softly. Then he steps out into the water, waves lapping at his lower legs. He feels relief overtake him when he is waist deep and turns back to look at Iris. Lifting a hand, he makes the same come-here gesture as before, cupping his palm. She doesn't hesitate, wading out to him, freezing water climbing up her legs with each step. When she is near enough, he drifts back, and she follows. He slinks back another step decisively; she matches the movement forward. His heart beats very fast in his chest. A haze seems to fall over his vision, and he stands chest-deep in the water looking at the Princess of Annapurna.

He sinks until just his head is above water. Then he slides back until his mouth disappears under the same line. He watches her, half-shy, half-assured, because this – _this_ is where he belongs. Drifting closer to her again, he wraps his arms around her sides, and she wraps her arms around his neck. A deep hum builds in his chest, radiating contentment, because – God, how could he ever turn away this moment? She wraps her legs around his waist, holding onto him. He steps back, and now he is certain her feet would not touch the grey rocks just beneath his own. Still he doesn't falter, breathing shallowly, hands steady on her hips. _I won't drop you_ , he promises.

It's easy to hold her in the ocean, surrounded by her, and there they stay for a little eternity.

. o .

Barry's safe. Warm. Comfortable and sweet and strong.

Iris knows in some rational corner that there is a line between good judgment and blind trust that she cannot discern, but she doesn't care about it. He holds her steady and she holds him close. The ocean cools the air around them without touching them, but his breath still shudders in his chest. She knows he could draw her out to deeper waters with ease, pull her under without protest, but she looks into those soft eyes and knows he would never hurt her.

Almost in a dream, he carries her back ashore, his hands fixing under her knees to keep her upright. She feels cold sinking knives into her skin as they emerge in the open air, dripping icy water. He doesn't falter, holding onto her like she is the most precious thing in the world. Setting her down on the rocks, he hugs her, a wordless croon building in his chest. Warmth washes over her, chasing away the cold.

 _You're not a monster,_ she thinks, and doesn't realize she's saying it aloud until he shakes his head.

He pulls away, looking at her with earnest eyes. _Please understand me_. Softly, she repeats, "You're not a monster."

Swallowing hard, he reaches out tentatively. It surprises her with how shy the movement is, but when he takes her hand, he doesn't intertwine their fingers. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, soft and reverent. "I love you," he whispers helplessly against her skin, like he's telling her a terrible secret.

He releases her hand, and she can see him emotionally pulling back, steeling himself from that singular moment, so she doesn't hesitate.

Cupping his face, she leans up on tiptoe and kisses him firmly.

He tenses in surprise, unreactive for a moment, before melting into it. His hands slide down her back slowly, settling on her waist and pulling her gently closer. Everything about him is gentle, all that confined strength held in check, determined to never so much as ruffle a hair on her head. She smiles against him, and he makes an inquisitive sound before she pulls back just enough to ruffle his hair.

He laughs, a soft, beautiful sound, and God, she could keep him forever.

. o .

Watching the Siren and the shorelander, shadows but clearly held in an embrace, Tune asks slowly, _Was this part of the plan?_

Lisa smiles. "I wasn't aware there was a plan," she muses, sliding the knife into a pouch along her hip. "I was enjoying the fun."

Nep makes a disgusted sound. _It won't last,_ it vows.

"No," Lisa admits, "but we can permit him his beautiful lie a little longer."

. o .

"…fortunate there were no fatalities," Rothstein is informing the King.

"We'll find the source," Joe says. "We will…." His gaze fixes on two figures walking towards the castle, arm-in-arm. He can't make out their features, but he knows, reflexively, immediately, that it's his daughter and a companion. "See to it that the Raymonds are well," Joe advises distractedly, and Rothstein nods and bows before departing.

Stepping forward, Joe holds his ground as the pair approach. At last, in speaking distance, he calls out, "I was beginning to wonder when you would return."

"Sorry, Father," Iris says, sounding genuinely apologetic, but there's a light and happy smile on her face that has nothing to do with him. His gaze slides to her companion, and his jaw tenses. "Barry and I were…."

"At the shore," Joe finishes. "I can see that." She's soaked to the skin, ready to catch her death in such water, and he trains an even sterner glare on 'Barry.' "I had you put in the dungeons. Yet you were not accounted for when the fire ran its course."

The tips of Barry's ears burn red. He ducks his head apologetically.

"Give me a reason—" Joe begins.

"He's a Siren," Iris says, and Joe halts.

His gaze fixes on Barry without looking away, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I hope that means he hails from a hitherto unknown land of Sire," he says at last.

Barry shakes his head. Iris says aloud, "No."

"Does he talk?" Joe asks.

Barry makes an unreadable sound.

"He – can," Iris says evasively, and Joe narrows his eyes. "Father," she says in exasperation. "Stop. He didn't hurt me."

"Why are you soaking wet? Have you no sense of self-preservation?" Joe demands. "Twice, now, you have endangered my daughter," he tells Barry in a low growl.

"He did not do anything," Iris says sternly, but Barry's cheeks flush red, guilty and apologetic. "We need to talk. Preferably not in the open air."

Joe stares at Barry. "You don't look like a Siren," he says.

Barry frowns, then tugs at Iris' arm, pulling away and gesturing towards the water. "No," Iris says, taking his arm again, halting him. "You do not need to prove it to him." Barry tilts his head a little, confused, but turns back to face Joe. "If my word isn't good enough for you, then our relationship is poorer than I thought," Iris tells him.

It stings more than Joe expects it to. "A Siren," he repeats, hoping to convey the correct amount of exasperation. "A _Siren._ Do you know what they do—"

"Yes."

Joe's parental instinct is immediately set off. "Then why have you brought him to our town?" he asks, keeping his voice just above a hiss.

Barry shuffles anxiously. Iris doesn't move. "Not in the open air," she says at last, in that immovable "I'm going sailing, no matter what you say, Father" tone.

He sighs. "I have a castle to attend to," he warns her.

"Attend to it," Iris suggests. "We can speak at the tavern at a better hour."

"Noon," Joe says sternly.

Barry blanches, but Iris merely nods. "Noon," she repeats. "Thank you, Father."

He looks at Barry for a long moment. "Hurt her," he says shortly, "touch a hair on her head, and I will ensure that your death is—"

"Father," Iris warns.

"Swift," Joe finishes brusquely, and Barry nods, looking sick.

Iris smiles sweetly, and Joe sighs as he turns back to his castle, marching off to rejoin the others. _Children,_ he thinks, and wonders when Wally's gambling and horseback riding took second seat to Iris' adventures.

 _A Siren._

He's glad he pushed the meeting until noon – that's going to take time to swallow.

. o .

"Noon?" is the first word out of Barry's mouth, speaking almost into Iris' hair, he's so close to her. He doesn't dare raise his voice at all, terrified that someone else will overhear him.

"When the sun is highest in the sky," Iris clarifies with a nod.

 _That's half my time, gone._

Clearing his throat, he asks, "Could we not … arrange an earlier meeting?"

She frowns at him. "Why?"

 _Because I have two days to live._ "I'm … eager. To correct his impression of me," Barry lies.

Iris smiles, and it makes him ache for the lie as she rubs his back. "He's a slow soul, preferring to take his time in all manner of things, but he will come around to any reason with enough time." She tugs on his sleeve lightly. "If he's willing to chastise me for my tastes in companions, then all is well here. Let me show you something worth your time."

Frowning thoughtfully, he thinks, _Unless it is a Selkie skin, I have not much time left to appreciate it._

Nodding, he says, "Lead the way" and she goes.

Following her, he marvels at how utterly serene she seems despite the glaring reality. _I'm a Siren,_ he wants to tell her until she understands the danger. _They've written stories about me, stories young children know by heart. I come into their homes and I kill them. I drown sailors and seagulls, all manner of beast on land and half as many in the water. I have venomous fangs and a tail as white as a corpse. I'm raving, irrational and always hungry for blood. I'm angry – I'm remorseless, merciless._

Letting himself be towed along by Iris, he thinks, _I am none of those things_ and relaxes into the alternative. _My story hasn't been written yet._

 _I'll make it worth telling_. Catching up to her, he walks alongside her, and tries to ignore just how utterly, stupidly _happy_ it makes him.


	16. Chapter 16

The hill is slick, the stones are sharp, and the air is absolutely, _fantastically_ cold, but Barry follows Iris without question.

Utterly enchanted, he can do nothing else but follow her. The ocean calls to him, but its distant, rhythmic wash is that of a good friend wishing him well on his journey. He smiles at the thought and proceeds. Even when he slips on those irreverent rocks, he pulls himself back to his feet and smiles at Princess Iris. _I'm all right_ , he thinks. He doesn't feel all right: he feels _magnificent_. He wants to laugh, but it catches in his chest in the cold. Silent but radiating contentment, he steps after her and scarcely notices their ascent to the roof of the world.

They stop at some arbitrary point, the slope inclined so steeply that Barry has to hold on with both hands or risk a rather spectacular slide back down. Iris turns and sits on the rocky incline, and he shuffles closer to her before mirroring her. She takes his hand and squeezes it; he squeezes back, inhaling cold air and exhaling soft white clouds, astounded at the _view_.

He has seen the mountains of the deep, the places where the Selkies cannot venture and the Merfolk do not dare. They inspire fear and an aching sense of loneliness in him, haunted caverns that descend without end. Sirens do not need to breathe air, and so he could venture into the hearts of those great monuments, but he never did. He could never bring himself to enter that darkness, knowing that whatever he found would not regard him with any more fondness than the creatures beyond them.

Sitting on the slope next to Iris, Barry marvels at the contrast between the two experiences, at the sheer _awe_ he feels looking out at the world.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Iris rests her head on his arm and muses, "It must be magnificent to live out in the sea."

Barry slides his arm around her back, drawing her close to keep her warm. "It is magnificent," he agrees. "But this …" he shakes his head, saying softly, "this is extraordinary."

Iris hums. "You know, the Greeks, they placed their gods on a hill," she tells him. He rests his cheek against the top of her head, radiating warmth. "Mount Olympus. What better place for a god to reside than a place like this?"

Barry noses at her hair a little. "What is a god?" he asks.

Iris laughs. "That's a very good question," she admits, slinging her arm low around his back. "A god is … more than human. Someone we … aspire to, or perhaps simply aspire to please."

"Is your father a god?"

"Fearsome though he can be, no, he is not," Iris assures. An unconscious tension eases from Barry's shoulders. "The gods do not walk the earth like we do," she continues. "Not anymore. If they exist, they're more reclusive now."

Barry frowns. "'If'?"

Iris shrugs. "I've never seen one," she admits. "I've only read stories." Then, squeezing his hip, she adds, "I never thought I'd meet someone from a story."

Barry's chest tightens at the thought that she has heard the Siren stories under the sea. _How could she have?_ he rebukes himself, daring to believe that her lack of resentment towards him is genuine. If she knew … "What stories?" he asks at last.

"Oh, nothing so terrible," she assures, which only makes his stomach twist. "Sailors who fall in love with Sirens. Sirens who drown sailors." When he tenses, she adds, "The waves drown sailors, too. A life at sea is fraught with peril. It only makes sense that the sailors' stories would reflect that uncertainty."

"Do they speak of …" Barry tries to think of how to phrase it without showing his hand. "Children?" he finishes evasively.

Iris laughs, a pure, wonderful sound. "Well, in the company of beautiful women, men are wont to think of … things at least _relating_ to children," she says. He senses evasiveness, but he doesn't press the issue. "No," she allows. "They don't truly speak of children." Stroking his hipbone with her thumb, she asks, "What makes Siren children story-worthy?"

He swallows hard. The truth emerges before he can think to confine it: "Because they do not exist."

Her thumb pauses. "None?" she asks, surprised. He nods. He cannot speak. "That seems extraordinary. Sirens must be very reticent," she muses, resuming the motion.

"There are no Sirens," he corrects. "No … other Sirens," he clarifies stiltedly. Holding up a single finger, he says simply, "Just one."

Iris ponders that for a long moment. "You are the only Siren?" she asks at last. There is something unreadable in her tone. He does not dare respond to it, pulling his arm back to himself. "You said you were alone," she adds, and he nods a little. "I presumed…" She finally leans back to look into his eyes. He averts his gaze. "There are no others?"

He shakes his head nearly imperceptibly. Still he does not look at her. "No others," he repeats softly.

She reaches up to cup his cheek. He turns his head away, eyes closed. He cannot bear to look at her. "That must be incredibly lonely."

"It can be."

She taps his cheek, and he slides his gaze over to hers. In the morning light, she is magnificent. Golden. "I'm sorry," she says sincerely.

"Don't be." He reaches up to cup her hand. "I have you." Grimacing, he corrects, "I mean I … _had_ you." His cheeks heat up, and he nearly stumbles over his words as he hastens to amend, "Not that I _had_ you, you are your own in all regards, I only meant – I have enjoyed our time togeth – not strictly _together_ , you understand, but—"

She cups his face. "Barry."

His face is burning. "Mm-hm?"

"I was never there because I felt compelled to be there," she says softly, kissing his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut; his anxiety melts like snow as he kisses her back. "I was there because I wanted to be." Spoken softly against his cheek, her words make his eyelids flicker open, just partway, just to smile at her properly.

"You're extraordinary," he tells her.

"Coming from a Siren, that's quite the compliment," she teases.

"You're extraordinary," he repeats seriously.

She hums dubiously, but she also leans forward to kiss him again, which is answer enough for him.

. o .

Iris aches with fatigue by the time they descend the small mountain. With tireless enthusiasm, Barry cuts a path ahead, barefoot and confident. She marvels at how comfortable he is on legs, certain she would not be half as coordinated with a tail. He pauses and looks back frequently to confirm that she is still with him, smiling a little before proceeding with the same verve. It's mid-morning, approaching noon when they finally walk on flat ground again. Her first impulse is sleep; her second is _food_.

Satisfying herself with the latter, she takes his arm in hand. He nods, and she leads, the simplest cooperation enabling the perfect semblance of normalcy between them. She can draw him along any path she pleases with his implicit permission. But whenever he pauses or gives the gentlest tug in an alternative direction, drawn by something, she pauses, too, and wordlessly begins to follow him. His ears flush with apology, and he shakes his head before nodding towards their original path.

Thus, she guides him through the busy streets of Annapurna without creating a spectacle. "Good morning, Princess!" voices chime. Barry turns reflexively towards them and Iris smiles at the passerby before Barry gives her the gentlest nudge, wordless permission to proceed in any way she pleases. For all his power, she muses, he is happy to surrender it.

They pause at the bakery and Iris smiles at the sight of the Raymonds. Barry almost anxiously leans partially behind her. "Princess," Ronnie effuses, rising from his chair and walking over to them. "We were so worried, we couldn't find you—"

"It's quite all right," Iris assures. "I'm fine."

Ronnie's shoulders visibly relax. "That's wonderful," he says sincerely. "And what of you, Henry?" Then, frowning, he adds, "We heard rumor of a disagreement between you and the king."

"My father is overreactive," Iris assures, stepping aside so Barry is in full view. "Barry has done nothing wrong."

"Barry, is it?" Ronnie says with a grin. He seems deeply amused.

Reaching up to rub the back of his neck, Barry nods once.

"Near enough to Henry to be forgiven for a slight," Ronnie permits graciously. Iris smiles. "Join us," Ronnie says, extending a hand towards the table near the back of the room, just beneath a vast window letting in the morning light but not the chill. "We have plenty of room."

Iris looks at Barry, ostensibly for agreement but silently for the little invisible nudge she needs to move along. He blinks at her unresponsively, then he nods, face flushing. _Sorry,_ he says silently, eyes averted. She takes his hand, squeezes it, and pulls him along gently.

"After all this time, I was certain you would accept the Duke's hand in marriage," Caitlin muses as she tucks into a divinely doughy cinnamon pastry. "Who's this?"

"Barry," Iris replies. He sniffs silently but tangibly beside her; she breaks off a piece of her sweet and sets it on the table in front of him. "Try it, it's wonderful," she suggests.

"Not from around here, are you?" Caitlin's mother, the Lady Anna Snow, adds. Her voice is brittle like ice, but her eyes are alert, her entire demeanor still retaining an air of elegance despite its frailty.

Without responding, Barry plucks the dough from the table and slides it into his mouth. He closes his eyes, purring almost audibly in pleasure. "He doesn't speak much," Iris explains, and Barry opens his eyes, nodding once in acknowledgment. "He's from out West."

"West, hm?" Ronnie says, a sly look in his eyes, one arm draped around Caitlin's shoulders. "What of his Southerly origins?"

"He's from the Southwest," Iris clarifies without missing a step. "Very different culture," she adds, humored, as Barry drains an entire mug of water in one fell swoop.

"How did you two meet?" Anna asks.

"As children do," Iris says with an evasive shrug. She passes Barry the rest of her sweet, and he very carefully peels another small bite from it. He then looks at her before setting the bite-sized offering in front of her. She smiles, reaching around her chair to rub his back for a moment, overcome with affection.

"Oh, there's a story there," Ronnie insists.

"And here," Caitlin points out.

"A terribly boring one," Iris assures, hoping to quell their curiosity. Pulling her arm back, she takes the bite-sized piece of cinnamon dough and pops it into her mouth. "Not worth telling."

"Every story is worth telling," Ronnie says invitingly.

Iris looks at Barry contemplatively. He shrugs slightly, looking simultaneously apologetic and curious. _I wish I could help_. "We met at sea," she says at last. "I wished to go out on the water, and the Rathaways were gracious enough to take me on their ship." The ring of truth helps steady her voice. "Father didn't like it much, but he knew he couldn't stop me from pursuing it. I thought I was the only child aboard." She reaches up and squeezes the back of Barry's neck gently, teasingly. "You made me feel less rebellious."

His eyelids are half-mast, staring at her in wonder. She lets him go after a moment, sliding her hand down his back, resting in the middle. "He saved my life," she adds seriously. "I was fit to slip overboard when he steadied me."

"That's hardly _boring_ ," Ronnie chides lightly. "Although now I see why you don't tell it in the company of your father," he adds, amused. "Your nearest scrape with death aged the poor man ten years."

Iris rolls her eyes affectionately. "Good. With enough time, he may finally embrace my lifestyle." She glances down at his wristwatch and sighs. "We're meeting with him at noon."

Ronnie follows her gaze and frowns. "How the time flies," he muses.

She feels Barry tense a little under her hand but doesn't comment on it.

As soon as they are on the street, Barry takes her hand, gently but firmly, and guides her down the way. "Barry," she warns, but she cannot stop, and so she follows without fuss.

They leave the cobbles behind, venturing into the woods, but Barry doesn't stop until they are a good distance from even the faintest trace of people. Then he turns to her, releasing her hand and saying simply, "I have to go."

She frowns. "Why?"

She can see him roll a lie around in his mouth before he shakes his head. "I have to go," he repeats stubbornly.

"Barry," she warns. "If you truly endeavor not to force me into something, you'll at least humor me with what that thing is."

He looks her up and down once. "The less you know, the better," he insists, but his voice wavers. "Iris." Pleading, he says softly, "Don't make me tell you."

"I can't _make_ you do anything," she reminds him, a hint of steel in her tone.

He fists a hand in his hair, nodding once, twice. "No, I know." He paces away. A gentle impulse to follow becomes an irresistible hand of god. She trails after him. It's impossible to hold her ground against him, she muses sourly. "You can stop," he adds aloud, and she does. He exhales shakily, releasing his grip on his hair. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me what you must do," Iris insists.

He bows his head, staring at the ground in front of him.

"Barry," she repeats.

Agitated, he says bluntly, "I have to steal something."

Her stomach sinks. "What?" she asks, simultaneously exclamation and question.

He walks up to her, and she tenses at the sheer energy he radiates. Oblivious, he tells her fervently, "I don't want to, I would _never_ , but I – I don't know what will happen if I _don't_." He reaches out, holding her shoulders, earnest and intense at once. She wants to put distance between them, to process, but she can't move away. "I did something stupid," he says softly, "and now … I can't risk _you_ to _chance_."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, equally quiet.

He shakes his head. "I can't walk on land of my own," he begins. "I had help. So I made a trade."

She frowns. "A trade?"

He nods. "For my time on land, I have to repay her before the third sunset, or I will die."

"That's why you have to steal something," she surmises.

He nods again. "Yes," he says, sounding hoarse. "And I … I would give up my life, gladly, for this opportunity to be on land with you, but now I – I cannot risk _yours_. We're tied together," he reminds her. He releases her and walks backwards. Iris follows, slowly but surely, the tug more compelling than the urge to draw breath, even. "Our fates are intertwined. But I will not hurt you. I will not drown you. And I will not be your death," he affirms, voice almost hypnotic in its consistency, and she believes him. He won't hurt her. How could he? He's a Siren.

 _That's how_ , a small corner of her mind points out.

She ignores it, trusting the louder voice insisting that there is _nothing_ dangerous about him. At last, she even smiles. "I know," she tells him. He halts in place. She steps closer, resting a hand on his forearm. Peace settles over her. _Trust him_ , a soft impulse suggests. "I trust you," she says aloud, and it feels right. He pales, resting a hand on hers, gently prying her fingers from his arm. She slides her hands around his waist instead. "I trust you," she repeats.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Why?"

He pulls away, holding onto her hands so she cannot hold him. "I have to do this," he tells her. "I have to do this. For you," he adds with aching apology. "I have to steal a Selkie's sealskin before dusk on the third day, or I will die." He squeezes her hands, explaining, "I'm well into the second. I must do this. Every second that passes … I can't bear it, the thought that if I fail I will be your end." He lets go of her hands, cupping her face gently and pressing his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes. "Let me do this," he entreats. "Let me do this, for you, and then you will be happy and free again."

She reaches up and slides her hands around the crooks of his elbows, holding on. "I won't be happy without you," she tells him.

"I will bring her the sealskin," Barry says mechanically. "I will repay her for these days, and then I will free you." He pulls back; she opens her eyes to look into his own, sea-green and sincere. "Whatever the cost," he says simply, his voice like honey, and she knows it is true. Then he lets her go and adds seriously, "What I must do … what _we_ must do." He swallows, looking sick. "I want you to have the least part of this," he says. "You will accompany me, but I will not endanger you in any way besides."

"I have no qualms accompanying you," she tells him.

Barry winces. "Your father will not feel the same way," he murmurs.

"I do not care about my father," she says automatically. He does not even seem real, next to Barry, who stands ablaze with emotion, substantial in front of her.

Barry is ashen-faced. "I will fix this," he says, voice trembling a little.

"You don't need to," she assures him. Why should he? She has everything she needs, the whole world at their fingertips. She needs nothing but him. She says as much aloud.

"I will fix this," is all he says, releasing her hands and stepping out of her reach. "But we must move quickly. We have a lot of ground to cover."

A thrill of excitement races through her. "Are we to run away?" she asks.

He looks sick. "For now," he says.

She smiles. He doesn't smile back.

. o .

 _Don't talk to her, don't touch her, don't even look at her any more than you absolutely have to_.

Breathing shallowly, Barry feels like he's going to pass out, but he doesn't pause to regroup. There is no time to regroup. Every _second_ weighs on him, a palpable pressure on his chest. _Ignore it at your peril_ , he thinks, ignoring the urge to return to the town. He knows he's courting disaster, but he can't bear to stand still.

 _I have to keep moving_.

The shore is not far, but the forest is dense, and it takes time to reach it. Time he doesn't have, time that _isn't his_ , borrowed time, stolen time, trickling between his fingers faster and faster and faster. He hears Iris behind him and contents himself with the audible confirmation, refusing to engage any more than he has to, to risk dragging her any deeper into the proverbial water. _You're making it worse_ , he thinks, hating himself for it.

He'd thought – he'd _dared_ to think, dared to dream that everything would be _fine_ –

But like the happy moment on the shore with her, heart light with song as he lifted her up, the idea that she wasn't ensnared was only an illusion.

 _None of this is real_ , he thinks, and exhales shakily when waves finally come into view. _None of it._

He stares at the grotto, at the rocks nearby and their hidden treasure.

 _Not yours,_ a little voice hisses in his mind. He staggers towards his target, holding up a hand behind himself to halt Iris. _None of this is yours. Fix it and leave them._ He struggles over the rocky shore, heart pounding in his chest.

Reaching the boulders with their sealskin prize underneath, he lies flat on his belly to retrieve it.

The sealskin is gone.

Disappointment, fury, frustration, and relief crowd his chest. He doesn't know how to respond, staring at the empty space like the sealskin will materialize if he looks hard enough. But Selkies are smart enough to recognize danger and respond accordingly. As soon as Barry gave Oliver a chance to run, he took it.

A rumble of thunder offshore makes Barry shudder. He shuffles back and onto his knees, shaking. He doesn't know when Oliver and his kid left, but if they're wise, they'll be miles away by now. Worse, they'll have warned any Selkie they encountered about the terrible danger awaiting them. _A thief will try to take your sealskin,_ he can hear Oliver say, _go elsewhere._

Shoulders sinking, he exhales and closes his eyes. _You said you wouldn't take his_ , Barry accuses himself.

 _Is it better to take someone else's?_ a rational corner of his mind challenges.

To that, he has no answer. But he knows that kneeling on the stones will not save Iris' life, any more than grieving for the loss of the easy answer will.

 _It was never easy_.

 _It was just faster._

Breathing in and out slowly, he opens his eyes, pushing himself to his feet. _I need fast_ , he thinks, gazing up at the overcast sky. _I desperately need fast_.

Turning around, he freezes at the sight of Hunter Zolomon setting an unmoving Iris on the ground. "Hello, Siren," Hunter greets, smiling. There is something very insidious about the ease and sincerity of it. "Don't worry," he adds, advancing towards him. Barry cannot move, arrested in place. "She'll be fine." With sudden verve, he surges ahead and sinks a knife deep into Barry's chest. "You, on the other hand—" He yanks the knife out, casting it aside and seizing Barry by the collar of his furskin – _tunic_ , he thinks blearily. _It's called a tunic_.

Dragging him over the rocks, Hunter narrates, "The King is not the only person with ears. I will be a hero for extracting the hidden menace from our midst. The one who set the castle ablaze, who kidnapped and threatened to kill the Princess, had I not intervened." He hauls Barry into the water after him.

Barry tries to get up, but there's blood in his mouth and his lungs and he could no sooner stand than fly. _I would never hurt her,_ he thinks, dazed and desperate at once.

"Here I thought you were just a rogue," Hunter muses. He drags Barry through the shallows; unable to get purchase or lift himself up, Barry cannot evade the water rushes over his face. He cannot hear what Hunter says next, but Hunter's last words ring out clearly: "I don't need to kill you. Nature will."

Then he releases Barry, and in water that is scarcely three feet deep, the Siren begins to drown.


	17. Chapter 17

_"_ _Raaaaar."_

 _Both twins shriek as Barry sweeps Don into his arms. Dawn bolts up the hill, laughing and crowing, "Can't catch me, I'm too fast!" Don, laughing, strains to break free of Barry's grasp._

 _"_ _Run, Dawn! Run!"_

 _Kissing Don's head and setting the six-year-old back down, Barry bolts after his daughter. "Oh, the mightiest runner in the land! Even the strongest dragon cannot keep up!" With a deep inhale, he cries out, "I am … overcome!" Collapsing onto his back, he lies prone in the grass and oomphs when a small weight throws itself onto his chest._

 _"_ _Gotcha!" Dawn says._

 _Barry laughs, grunting when Don launches himself on top of them, stirring giggles from Dawn._

 _"_ _What are you doing to your poor father?" Iris asks, amused._

 _Dawn crows, "Mama, I caught the dragon!"_

 _"_ _I helped!" Don insists, squealing and twisting out of reach when Barry tickles him. "Papa!"_

 _"_ _Our brave, noble children," he muses, sitting up. Dawn hugs his neck, and Don sits on his knees. "Our silly, wonderful children," he corrects, reaching out to ruffle Don's hair as Dawn hugs him tightly._

 _"_ _Our perfect children," Iris corrects, sitting next to him and leaning her shoulder against his. "Our perfect life," she croons, and he slides a hand over to squeeze hers._

 _And the boy who never was a Siren embraces his family and his perfect little life._

. o .

The boy who became a Siren stares at the roof of the world.

His own red blood spills across the deep blue water. Each rolling wave that passes over him is close enough to touch, but his hands do not reach for them. His chest does not rise; his next breath doesn't come. Were he not aching with the cold and the deep dull ache of masked pain, he could almost believe that he was where he was meant to be. He's spent countless hours lying on these soft grey stones, looking up at the sky and wondering if he would ever be part of it.

 _Perhaps this is who I will be forever_ , he muses, vision almost too dark to even see the world above the water. _Chained to the ocean floor, drowning for all time_. The thought makes him ache for the stars, for some soft reminder that they still exist, that his parents _existed_ , that his _life_ existed –

That he existed.

Distantly, he feels someone grab him under the shoulders, and he breaks the surface of the water. His vision has given up; there is only darkness around him. He wants to tell the – person, he supposes, and wonders what human would be foolish enough to fish a dying Siren out of the water – that he will accept the fate given to him, that he will not inflict any more suffering, _my kind has inflicted enough suffering for ten thousand lifetimes_ –

Then he hears the voice, faint but familiar: "Stay with me, Barry, stay with me."

 _Iris._

With surprising strength, she hauls him out of the water onto the shore. Thunder rumbles in the distance. He feels the soft spray of rain against his face. He clings to consciousness, determined to be with her these last moments. But blood and water gargle in his mouth as he tries to take a breath, thin and impossible, and he knows that he cannot last.

Still, he aches for her, aches to – to _sing_ to her, one last time—

A low hum fills the air, a weak semblance of the song which once so enchanted her. A strange deflating pressure caves in his chest and he can barely make a sound but oh, he has to try for her, he has to _try_ , she deserves the _world_ , she deserves to live beyond him and she can't do that if he drags her after him unto death—

So he hums softly, deliriously, barely making a sound at all. A faint warmth fans outward from the deep wound in his chest, leaving it aching abominably. It's not enough – he knows it's not enough, and like the Siren Who Came Before Him, trying to survive will only buy more time to suffer – but he can't give up, not on her, not on _her_. "Iris," he breathes, gasping. He twists his head and expunges water and blood onto the rocks. "I-I-Iris."

"I'm here," she tells him, equally breathless, relief and fear and agony in her tone. She supports him, keeping him upright when his shaking arms will not oblige. "Stay with me."

He aches to disobey, to simply sink into the painless darkness he knows is waiting – but he looks at her, eyes half-lidded, and finds a deeper hum, a stronger one, building in his chest. It hurts, hurts so much he has to break off to gasp, unable to push any harder.

She hugs him, his feet still close enough to the water that the waves wash over them, and then she picks up where he left off, carrying on.

And so the shorelander sings the Siren's song.

. o .

Iris awakes in time to see Hunter Zolomon drag an unmoving Barry out into the water.

 _No,_ she thinks, ignoring the fearsome headache forming at the back of her head as she pushes herself upright. The splashing and distant thunder drown out her steps as she staggers over the rocks towards them. She sees a bloodied knife off to one side and feels her own blood run hot, her fury surge. She picks it up without thinking, and Hunter drops Barry into the water.

He doesn't resurface. Fear and rage blind her.

Somehow, the knife sinks into Hunter's back. The man lurches, turning towards her, nearly knocking her over. She steps just out of reach and he arches back, reaching for the knife and looking at her with wild eyes, like he wants to put it in her ribcage. Then he drops to his knees. His breathing is ragged, but his lips are bloodless when he finally drops forward. His chest rises and falls shallowly. _Alive_ , she thinks.

She barely notices, splashing frantically into the breathtakingly cold water. She doesn't need to see Barry to know exactly where he is, plunging both arms shoulder-deep in the water to grasp his own. In something of a panic, she drags him ashore, strength only failing her trembling arms when he is fully out of the water but for the waves splashing at his feet. He looks half-dead, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, the wound in his chest mere inches below his heart.

 _Barry_ , she thinks, and barely realizes she's saying it out loud, over and over, until he finally twitches in her arms. With renewed enthusiasm, she helps him turn partially onto his side so he can cough up water, heart twisting in her chest at the volume and plain taint of blood. _No one can survive this_ , some rational corner of her mind forewarns her, urging her to let the dead die, but she refuses.

She absolutely refuses to let Barry die.

He hums softly, and she only knows it because she can feel the faint reverberations against her hands, but it doesn't last long. It doesn't build like it needs to, doesn't fix him like it needs to, and she knows that he will die if she doesn't do something.

So in an act of desperation, she carries on the same melody. It's scarcely louder than his voice was and she doesn't know it like he does, but warmth still spreads to her fingertips. She hugs him gently, his head cradled against her chest, willing him to live. Crooning, she holds onto his life, onto the little bit of it left to her. She lifts her voice until a clarion cry bursts free, desperate and hopeful at once. As thunder rumbles after her, she tapers off into silence, holding onto him, rocking him.

Tears trickle down her cheeks as he goes limp in her arms. Into the stillness she pleads, "Barry." Hugging him tightly, she sobs and repeats, "Barry."

He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and she feels something – vanish, like a hand tugging gently on the back of her shirt finally letting go. She feels suddenly, terribly alone. An impulse to run surges to the forefront of her thoughts, urging her to run as far as she can now from this terrible place, this terrible feeling, but she longs to hold onto him even more. _I never needed an enchantment to love you_ , she thinks, pressing her cheek against his temple. _You were always enchanting. Just you._

Holding him, weeping for him, Iris doesn't care about the thunder or rain, the sea or the man lying on the rocks near them. She holds onto Barry, even though she knows – she _knows_ he's gone. He's gone.

"He's not far."

Lifting her gaze slowly, Iris stares at the woman in the water. "He's stuck in this world until he fulfills another obligation." She smiles. There's something sharp about it, something forewarning. "I run a charity, it seems."

"You're the one." It isn't a question. "The one who …"

The woman nods. "It's a lonely place for a goddess of the sea to linger without company," she muses. "Sirens are one of the few creatures lonely enough to entertain us."

Iris arches both eyebrows slightly. She doesn't release Barry. "A goddess?"

The woman nods, then rises a little farther out of the water. "Unfortunately, I am confined to the sea," she says, and rises just a little higher still, until Iris can see how her midline terminates, and tentacles rise out of the water. She squeezes Barry's unmoving shoulders sharply in surprise. "So, I have to find other ways to entertain myself."

"Entertain yourself?" Iris asks, an edge of steel creeping into her tone. "Is that what you call this?"

"I confess, I still desire my sealskin," the woman says, ignoring her. "I have no unkind intentions," she adds. Iris frowns. The woman drifts closer, nearly shoring herself. "So. We arrive at something of an impasse. I'm happy to revive him," she adds, nodding at Barry, an air of casual certainty in her tone that makes Iris' heart skip a beat, "but, you see … I don't run a charity."

 _You can still walk away,_ Iris thinks. It's a soft, agonizing impulse. She can't help but think about what it would mean to leave Barry behind. To leave this whole mythical world behind and return to something of a normal life. She could be happy again, she knows; there is too much happiness on Earth to never find it again, even in Barry's absence. _You have ventured into dangerous waters. Return home, while you still can._

She can't make her hands let go of Barry. She can't even fathom setting him down, accepting that he's anything but in her reach, anything but close enough to hold. "What do you want?" she asks at last, softly.

"First, I want my sealskin by dusk tomorrow," the woman says simply. "And I want a million things besides, but I will settle for a price worthy of a Siren's life." She looks down at Barry, then back up at Iris. Her smile is positively wicked. "A life for a life. Your crown would suit me quite nicely." Gliding back, she croons, "Tell me, Princess: is he worth it?"

 _Yes._ Iris swallows, sensing the danger of accepting even though Barry – Barry's _body_ , she corrects, and it makes her stomach churn – is cooling in her grasp. "You will keep your word?" she asks, and her voice only wavers a little.

"What motive do I have to break it?" the woman asks. "If you bring me what I want, I have no reason to harm either of you." Thunder crackles in the distance. "I will not linger here forever. I can acquire a sealskin on my own, if need be, and leave you with nothing but a Siren to bury." Softly, almost singing, she asks, "What does a happy life look like to you?"

Iris doesn't hesitate. _A life with him._ She inhales deeply, exhales shakily. "We give you the sealskin—"

"And the crown," the woman adds, nodding.

"By dusk tomorrow," Iris finishes slowly, "and he lives?"

She nods once.

Iris swallows. She can picture herself walking through the woods towards her home, cold and alone, and aches suddenly, intensely, never to know that journey. "I'll do it," she says.

The woman croons, "Wonderful." She snaps her fingers, and Barry lurches upright, heaving for breath and clutching his side. "Soon we'll meet again, Princess." Then she vanishes beneath the waves, and Iris can't stop shaking as she reaches out for Barry.

He turns towards her, and she experiences a moment of trepidation that he won't remember her, that he will be the same blank-faced creature of the night before, when a warm, affectionate smile melts across his face. "Iris," he breathes, exhausted but steadier, _himself_ , and she hugs him hard, sobbing. "Iris, what—"

"You're alive," she says, holding onto his neck.

He makes a soft sound, sitting up so he can hug her back properly, tucking his forehead against her shoulder for a moment. It's freezing in the rain – rain turning to snow, she realizes, as it flakes in his hair – but she doesn't care. "I – I don't know how," he admits.

She kisses his temple, tangling a hand in his hair and ignoring the sudden trepidation in her stomach. "Good fortune," she says, unable to tell him the truth. "Are you all right?"

He leans back a little, just enough to lift the tunic high enough that she can see a scar where the knife wound was. Nodding shakily, he staggers a little drunkenly to his feet. She follows, mostly intending to steady him but largely crashing into him, relieved and shocked and _happy_. "Barry, Barry, Barry," she repeats, sliding her arms around his neck and holding on.

He squeezes her elbow gently and says carefully, "Iris—"

"It's all right," she tells him, letting him go. He frowns in confusion, hair spiked and entire demeanor ruffled but still so – _alive_ , it makes her heart stick in her throat. "Ask me to do something."

His frown deepens. He looks around, then at the body on the ground nearby, startling violently. "Is he—"

Iris turns, and sees Hunter's chest rise and fall, shallow but steady. "No," she says.

Barry relaxes, but he reaches up to rub the back of his neck anxiously. "Um. Follow me." He walks, slow and a little clumsy, towards the forest. The gentle urge to follow never arises; the sharper need to obey is gone. He's nearly out of sight, obscured by the snow, when he finally turns back to her. "You—" He steps back towards her, his face brightening with a smile. "How, _how_ —?"

"I don't know," she admits, and laughs when he picks her up, hugging her. "Barry, be careful, you'll hurt yourself."

"It's gone? Truly?" he asks, setting her down gently. With childlike enthusiasm, he says, "Stay," and retreats, but she follows him, and he laughs. "Iris, this is –" He claps a hand over his mouth with comical speed, asking behind it, "Doesn't this make it worse?"

"Barry." Stepping up to him, she pulls his hand down, and intertwines their fingers. His hand is so _warm_. She wants to cry, reaching up to brush her thumb against his cheekbone instead. "It's okay."

"How?" he repeats in a dazzled voice. "How is any of this _possible_?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know," she says again, but she has a terrible feeling she _does_ know.

 _What does it mean, to make a deal with a goddess?_

She presses a kiss to his cheek, lingering for a long moment. His eyelids flutter shut, and he slides his own arms around her waist. God, how could she even _entertain_ a life without him?

His stomach growls loudly, and she laughs, pulling back. "We have time," she whispers, and dares to believe in it, even the soft worry in his gaze as he nods. _I'll make time,_ he seems to say, squeezing her hand. _I'll make all the time in the world for you._ Then, glancing over at Hunter, he frowns. Stepping gingerly out of her embrace, he walks over to the man and takes the knife, casting it aside and carefully but assuredly placing the man over his shoulders. "Barry—"

"We're not killers," he says softly, and she feels a lump form in her throat. Nodding, she joins him, and he only walks slowly but steadily towards the forest.

And with every breath he takes, she knows just how utterly borrowed the time is.

 _Dusk tomorrow,_ she thinks, as the snowstorm turns the forest white.

It is so much, and far too little, time.

. o .

Carrying Hunter back to town makes Barry's legs tremble, but he doesn't drop the man.

 _No one has to die,_ Barry thinks. It steadies his step, even though he aches to let the burden go. It would be so much easier to be selfish, so much easier to hate him and just let the man die, but – _no one has to die._

Grunting, he forces himself to keep walking until, at last, they are near enough town that he can pause. Arms burning, he follows Iris, still bearing his burden, until a voice cries out sharply, "Princess Iris!"

They both have a fairly substantial quantity of blood on them, Barry realizes belatedly. His legs finally give out on him, and he hits the cobbles with bruising force, tumbling Hunter onto them. "Barry?" Iris asks, rushing back and crouching beside him. He nods reassuringly, _I'm all right_ , because he can't speak anymore, not around the others. Two men step forward and collect Hunter; Iris says shortly, "See that he is taken to the dungeons."

"Of course," one of them replies.

Iris helps Barry stand with a hand under his arm. "Not much farther," she assures him, pulling a trembling arm over her shoulders. Every step is heavy and hard – without the burden to carry another person, it seems suddenly impossible to make it even a foot farther. "Almost," she promises. He blinks, and suddenly she's pushing open the door to a warm space.

Barry sees Snart sitting in a corner table, idly lifting an eyebrow at him before disappearing behind a mug. Sinking gratefully into a chair at a table near the lit hearth, Barry lets his eyes close for a moment. He keeps a gentle grip on Iris' wrist, _don't go_ , but then he hears a deep voice say, "It's been hours."

"I know," Iris tells the King. "I'm sorry—"

"Are you all right?" the Queen asks. Barry's eyelids flutter open; he sees her frowning in concern. "What happened?"

"An unhappy encounter with Hunter Zolomon," Iris says, pulling a chair over and sitting beside him. "Barry saved my life."

Huffing inaudibly at the lie, Barry squeezes her wrist gently. _You saved mine_ , he aches to tell her, over and over, but he doesn't dare speak in the others' company.

The King hums thoughtfully. "Explain," he says.

"Papa," Iris implores, and it surprises Barry, the simple, almost childish endearment, "it has been the longest of days. Might we first relax a moment?" The barkeep hands her a mug, and she smiles. "See? Eliza has the right idea."

The King hums again, sounding vaguely unimpressed, but he doesn't push the issue. Barry blinks up at the woman – Eliza – when she puts a mug in his hands. He takes a slow sip; the sharpness of its contents surprises him, pooling hotly in his belly. _Hm_ , he muses, taking a deeper drink and gasping at the burn in his throat. _Wow_.

"Very well," the King says at last. "We may relax first." Eliza sets another mug in front of him and the Queen, and Barry finishes off his own in one fell swoop, hiccupping once after. "But you must tell me you are unharmed," the King says, suddenly fierce.

"Entirely," Iris assures. "It's Hunter's blood."

Barry nods, smiling when Eliza puts another mug in front of him. He drains it, and she fetches him a third. Amazing. Absolutely—

Iris gently slides the fourth out of his reach. He pouts, waiting for her to return it, sleepiness pooling in his belly as he leans down a little, resting his chin on his folded arms. He blinks at Iris, half-imploring, half-wondering, _can we leave?_ and _I want to stay_ intermingled in his thoughts. He has to – he has to _do_ something, but how much simpler it is to just stay like this, a fire at his back, Iris at his side, and a joyful warmth filling his chest.

 _Nothing in my life could be better than this moment,_ he thinks, sliding a hand towards her.

Iris takes it in her own, intertwining their fingers, and Barry closes his eyes, savoring every second of this happy little life together.

It's not perfect. Maybe it never will be.

But it is a life with her, and that will always be enough for him.


	18. Chapter 18

_He's back in the water._

 _He's always been in the water, prowling around and frightening any creature that dares to draw near to him into a hasty retreat. The eels glide alongside him, feeding on his kills. The ocean reveres its sole Siren; species of all types succumb to his song. He commands the seas, quelling any uprising against him. The other creatures tell stories about him, whispers into the darkness about the wrath of the Siren._

 _The Siren who never walked ashore is a different creature after four hundred years in the water._

. o .

Barry startles awake, staring at the wood in front of his eyes. Wood? Why on Earth…

Then he looks up, blinking at the table's inhabitants. _Land. I'm on land._ The King regards him with unimpressed eyes; the Queen arches her eyebrows inquisitively. Iris rests a hand on his wrist; he stares at it. Swallowing, he doesn't open his mouth, terrified of what will happen if he even twitches a muscle in his jaw. Gently, he slides a hand over Iris', meeting her gaze with fearful, hopeful eyes. _I don't want to be that monster_.

Thunder rumbles outside, and he startles in his chair. As the tavern door flickers open, a piercing wind cuts into the room. The barkeep, Eliza, plants a chair near it, so that it will only open partway for guests. Even so, snow sifts into the space in gusts, melting near the fire.

Barry remembers these sharp wintry days at sea. He would follow the ocean floor and nest in his cave for hours, days, weeks at a time. He lived in a catatonic state until the sun came back. Then he rose again to the surface and drank in the warmth and light, marveling at how alive the world seemed in winter's wake.

The fire is warm enough at his back to drive away the fierce cold frosting the windows. Even so, he sinks into his stiff furskins. To even think about venturing out into that cold drives nails into his fingers and back. _I will have to_ , he thinks. _For if I lie idle, I will surely die_. He shivers, and it has almost nothing to do with the cold.

Rubbing Iris' hand with his thumb, he does not meet the King or Queen's eyes, affording them the reverence of the monarchs under the sea. As a boy, he made the mistake of staring in open wonder at the beautiful betta-tailed rulers until a Mer-guard sharply rebuked him. _Show them respect_. He bows his head a touch, hoping to further convey goodwill as Iris talks in a warm, familiar timbre.

Drifting away from painfully strong arm holding back his own, he listens in to the conversation.

"I do not see why you would choose to consort with such a creature," the King says. Barry blushes, grateful that the fire distracts from it. "My dear daughter, have you not enough adventure in your heart?"

Barry slides his hand away from hers, but Iris holds onto his arm, squeezing it gently. "One can never have too much adventure in their heart," Iris says.

The King sighs. The Queen inquires, "What exactly _is_ …" lowering her voice meaningfully, she finishes for their table alone, "a Siren?"

Iris looks at him, but Barry does not meet her gaze. He cannot bear to see her expression, afraid to find even a hint of disgust. _She has no ill will towards you_ , he reminds himself. It doesn't matter; he can still hear the Merfolk condemning him, their chatter like knives raking across his flesh. _It's a Siren_ , they whispered as the guards escorted him, gagged and bound, through the city. _A Siren, a Siren._ Like it was a poisonous word.

He thinks of that poisonous creature in his mind, the one who ventures ruthlessly and fearlessly into populated areas. The killer, the king, the courier of death.

 _That is what I am._

Iris squeezes his arm again, lightly drawing his attention back to the present. He dares to meet her eyes and sees only fondness and concern there. He relaxes a little. _This is what I want to be_. "You know of Mermaids," Iris begins, looking away to address her mother directly. "Sirens are like them."

 _Except we create no cities and bear no children._

"Big paddle-like tails," Iris muses. "Sharp little claws." Unconsciously, he curls his fingers towards his palms. The King notices, and he unfolds them, knowing that there is nothing remarkable about them now. They're soft and human, flushed with pink. "At first glance, you would think they were human," she adds, "but there is something magic about them, beyond the accoutrements. Something … fantastic."

Looking right at Barry, the King observes, "Your reputation precedes you. Is it true that your voice can ensnare the boldest heart, the strongest creature?"

Barry swallows. He aches to deny it. _I would never hurt anyone._ But he knows the jeers of the Merfolk were not unfounded. He nods shallowly.

"Then what," the King asks in a dangerously low tone, "are you doing with my daughter?"

"Father," Iris warns.

"Have you ensnared her?" the King growls. "Forced her into your service?"

The warmth melts from Barry's face. He feels sick. "Father," Iris interjects sharply.

"What," the King repeats, staring Barry down, "are you doing with my daughter?"

Barry cannot speak. Looking at the King and then at his daughter, he slides Iris' hand gently into his own and lifts it to his lips, kissing the back of it. The gesture is entirely chaste, but he knows that the context is enough to bear the message across. The King surges from his chair and nearly rips Barry from his own.

"Father!" Iris cries a third time, appalled.

The King scruffs him by the back of his tunic, dragging him to his feet. Any eyes not already on them immediately refocus; even Eliza pauses behind the counter. Barry doesn't move, strangely aware that he could easily free himself – indeed, he could inflict some real harm if he wanted to, and he's very aware of Snart's gaze on the back of his shoulder. _I won't hurt him_ , he wants to tell Snart, the King, the entire room. _Or Iris,_ he adds, looking right at the King.

Iris shoves her chair back, radiating fury. Barry breaks free of the King's grip in a single fluid motion, turning and capturing Iris around the middle before she can surge into the fray. Facing the fire, back to the King, he freezes in place, gently but firmly holding Iris back. _It's okay_ , he thinks, heart pounding. _Everything is okay_.

"Enough," the Queen says firmly. She barely raises her voice and doesn't rise from her chair, but she doesn't need to. Seemingly all at once, the King, the Princess, and the Siren reclaim their seats. The tension in the room disintegrates as the others return to their own conversations. Barry senses they're being watched, still, but he looks at the King, locking gazes with him. It's a bold choice – in every predatory animal he has ever encountered, including but not limited to Selkies, a long stare is a deeply provocative gesture – but he feels a compelling urge not to be cowed.

 _Let it go,_ he tries to tell himself, but he does not blink. His heart pounds; with sudden verve, he aches to fight, to struggle tooth and claw for control. His tail – _I have no tail_ – still bears the scars from his unhappy encounters with Selkies in their seal-forms, and he knows that if he isn't careful even he will lose his life, but there is something almost thrilling in the simple energetic challenge of wrestling with a creature whose teeth can rip your throat open in a split second, if you are not careful.

 _Maybe I am too reckless for your daughter,_ he thinks.

The King orders, "Leave."

Barry's lip curls, just a fraction, just an instant, the beginning of a snarl that never forms. _Stop it,_ he berates, and finally, finally blinks. Just once, deliberately. The King doesn't mirror him. An irrational surge of anger makes Barry flex his hands against the table, claws that aren't there aching to sink into something fleshy, something _alive_.

" _Both of you_ ," Iris snaps, "stop it."

The King blinks. Barry lowers his gaze. _You are not making friends,_ he rebukes himself, staring at the table, anger evaporating. Shame courses through him, leaving a sick feeling in his stomach. _I'm sorry._ He doesn't look up, certain that he's already done enough damage.

Iris says shortly, "I introduced you as a sign of respect, but if you cannot even respect each other, I will not make the same mistake twice."

"Iris—" the King begins.

"I am my own woman," Iris tells him. "I choose who I associate with." She settles a hand on Barry's arm again, firmer, meant to make a point. He doesn't respond to it; he's not supposed to. "If you cannot accept that, that is not my problem."

The King inhales deeply. Barry tenses, but then he releases his breath and lifts a hand from the table, just a little. Eliza reappears and slides him a new mug, retrieving his empty one. "What motive," he asks at last, voice confined to their table, "would a male Siren have for associating with a woman?"

Iris' grip on Barry's arm tightens. He slides his other hand over hers, holding it there. _It's all right._ But Iris says heatedly, "Is that all you think of my companions?"

"It's all I think of his," the King says bluntly, nodding at Barry. Barry's ears burn; his anger stirs again. He doesn't know exactly what the King accuses him of, but he senses it is deeply affrontive. "I know the stories," he adds in a growl. Barry's heart twists. Dread washes away the anger. "I confess the opposite is usually true," the King continues, oblivious to his turmoil. "A female Siren lures a man after her because she is irresistible to him."

 _A man would follow me just as complacently_ , Barry thinks, not understanding. Iris, however, seems only furious.

"He is _not_ —"

"Isn't he?" the King cuts in challengingly, nodding at their hands. Barry retracts his as though burned. "Tell me honestly, Daughter – is he _not_ trying to win you over? Has he not already succeeded?"

Barry frowns at the table, aching to be anywhere else. _I have no unkind intentions towards her_ , he thinks. _What of 'winning her over'?_ The mere phrase confuses him. She's not a _prize_ ; she's a _person_.

Iris has had enough: she pushes back her chair sharply and rises. After a moment, Barry mimics her, albeit more sedately. Gazes are back upon them, but Iris doesn't hesitate or lower her voice. "We're leaving."

Barry blinks. The King warns, "Iris."

Taking Barry's wrist in her hand, almost in the manner of a Selkie, Iris leads him towards the door. Barry doesn't look back, even though he senses the King's gaze upon him, the Queen's soft sigh audible even over the furious bluster of wind.

Then they step out into a world of white, the town transformed by the snow. The shock of cold punches the breath out of Barry's chest. There is no force strong enough to compel him back into the tavern, not with the King and Queen still present, but the ocean calls to him, promising warmth beneath the chop of waves. "Come," Iris says shortly, voice unchanged by the cold, "we have a sealskin to find."

Barry thinks longingly of a warm interior space to curl up in and sleep for a few hours, but he nods in agreement because – _we have until dusk tomorrow._ He swallows. "A sealskin?" a familiar voice drawls. "I know where you can find a few."

Footsteps crunch towards them, and Snart emerges from the white-out. "Of course, no one in their right mind hunts them this time of year."

Iris asks warily, "Who are you?"

Snart looks at Barry. "Haven't introduced me, have you?" he says. Barry shrugs, apologetic but unable to change it. Snart holds out a hand; Iris looks at it. Instructively, Barry takes and shakes it, then looks at Iris. She mimics him. "Name's Snart. You don't need my first name." He looks them over, then asks in amusement, "What about seals tickles your fancy?"

Barry shrugs again. Iris asks, "Where can we find them?"

"It's morally reprehensible to lead a Princess to her death," Snart muses.

Much firmer, Iris repeats, "Where can we find them?"

Snart looks right at Barry, musing, "I hope you make it back. I could use you." Then he tells Iris simply, "Eighteen kilometers north, round the coves. You're welcome to walk, but the coastline won't get you much farther than six." Smiling, he adds, "You're also welcome to swim, but … well." He crouches, scooping up snow in his bare hand and thumping it against Barry's chest. It slips underneath the tunic and makes him growl, but Snart just steps back smoothly. "Good luck," he adds dryly, sauntering off.

. o .

In the summer, it's fully half a day's sailing.

In the winter…

Iris sighs. She's tired and sore and unhappy, but taking a break is off the table. _I didn't get you back just to lose you again_ , she thinks, reaching out to brush the rest of the snow off Barry's chest. He freezes, then looks up at her and smiles. Still, with the temperature plummeting, they desperately need warmer garb. "Well," she says bracingly, "if we're going to do this, then we're going to need warmer clothes."

Tilting his head at her, he draws her close and hums deep in his chest. Warmth floods her; she exhales and rests her cheek against his shoulder. Some of the tension eases out of her own shoulders. Sleep tugs enticingly at her eyelids, but she forces herself to back away after a moment. Quietly, she tells him, "We should go now before true darkness sets upon us."

He nods once, tethering an arm around her waist. Then, pausing, he squeezes her and retreats. She frowns. "Barry?"

Shaking his head, he smiles, then gestures for her to follow him.

Once they are nearly beyond the shielding warmth of the town and exposed to the storm, he embraces her again and says near her ear, "Iris, I can do this. Alone," he clarifies.

She's immediately on edge. "You'll freeze to death." He lets a soft little croon build in his chest, warmth fanning outward. She closes her eyes for a moment, so relieved to have him _back_ that it almost hurts. _I can't lose you twice_. "Barry," she warns. He quiets, and the cold begins to creep back in. "You'll die."

He shakes his head before resting his cheek against the side of hers. "I can do this. I know I can." He squeezes her gently, swaying them a little. "Let me do this, Iris. Please."

"I won't lose you again," Iris insists. "And I know if I let you do this you'll never come back." He steps back a little and she tightens her grip. "If we sail, we'll actually have a chance at success."

Barry hums low, warning. "That's optimistic."

"It's less suicidal than you going out on your own," she reminds him. "Have you even given any thought as to what would happen if you found a seal in the water?"

That gives Barry pause. She can almost see it, him sinking below the waves for just a moment only to come face to face with a jaw full of teeth. "Iris…"

The wind ices her side. She holds onto him a little tighter, and he hums. "This is my price to pay," he says at last. "I was the one who wanted to walk the shore." He nuzzles her neck and shoulder. "You didn't ask for this. Any of it. You deserve a life after—" He swallows hard. "After I am gone," he finishes.

"I don't want a life after you," Iris says. "I don't want to pretend none of this ever happened and return to my old life."

He pulls back, just enough to hold her arms gently. The space between them immediately fills with cold air, and she shivers. "I want you to have a life," he says softly. "You can _have one_ , Iris. You don't have to follow me. If I return, then…" He shrugs delicately. There's something heavy in his voice when he admits, "given the time left to me as a man, I'll probably be a Siren again. But even if I fail, you still get to have a _life_. If you accompany me, there is every chance you won't come home again."

She looks up into his sea-green eyes and aches for him. "I would rather risk that than never see you again."

He cups her face and rests his forehead against hers for a moment, thumb brushing over her cheek. "I'll come home," he promises.

"Barry…"

"I'll come home," he insists, kissing her. "Trust me."

"I do," she says, sighing and pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "But … Barry—"

"Hm?" he asks, waiting.

She suddenly can't say it. _I won't have a life like this after you._ "I'm coming with you," she redirects, steel in her tone as she steps back. He shakes his head, but she reaches up to cradle it, stilling it. "You can try to stop me," she says, "but I wouldn't advise it."

He looks at her, brow furrowed, like he knows there was something else she wished to say. _How could he?_ she comforts herself. "I—" He blinks, then sighs, and nods once. "All right."

She smiles up at him, leaning on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I'm glad we got the hard part out of the way," she teases.

His laugh is pure magic.

. o .

"I've always wanted to sail in the heart of winter," Cisco grunts, stalking the length of the small ship repeatedly. It rises and falls with the chop in the waves, despite being moored to the dock. Waves lash out at them regularly, splashing over the deck and turning it into a nearly solid sheet of ice. "It's my favorite time of year, you know!" he adds. Glancing over, he barks at Barry, "If you fall in the water, I am not fishing you out!"

Leaning back from the edge of the deck – entire torso draped over the edge, really, in a curious attempt to look at the window just below – Barry lifts his eyebrows at Cisco. "I love the _seas_ ," Cisco says, straining to get the ship in order.

"Oh, come now, have you not had enough cabin fever for a lifetime?" the helmsman, Rob, asks. "Nice to see you've fallen into good company," he adds with a nod at Barry. "Though my husband is nearly apoplectic over my stolen garb."

Barry cocks his head to one side. "What did he steal now?" Cisco shouts, leaning over the side of the ship in precisely the manner as Barry to take care of something else. Intuition guides Barry to his side, just in time to grab the back of his furskin and pin him to the deck. "All right, kleptomania forgiven," he says, squeezing Barry's shoulder once before stalking off.

The _White Hare_ is a tiny sailing vessel compared to the ones Barry is accustomed to seeing in the summer, a far cry from the broad merchant ships. But it's sturdy, a lot sturdier than Barry expects, the wood nearly twice as thick as he is used to encountering. It still feels decidedly less than secure in the roiling water, but – well, as far as ships in the winter are concerned, it beats a canoe.

Hartley holds the wheel steady, speaking with Iris in a low voice while Barry mills around the bow of the ship with Cisco and Rob. "I confess David wishes I would take up hunting instead," Rob adds, picking at the ice on the deck with a sharp-toed boot. They've all donned an extra layer of furskins, and Barry is grateful for them: he dares not sing or even hum in present company. The cold is quite spectacular.

"I would rather be chased by waves than boars," Cisco admits, untying a rope. "All right, if we're going to do this, no time like the present."

Hartley looks back and says simply, "My father will never hear of this."

Barry thinks that he needn't worry: their secrecy is surprisingly well-kept. It's already getting dark out, and the hale of wind and snow has pushed all but the most determined shorelanders back onto safer turf. The _White Hare_ doesn't make a sound over the roar of the wind, despite its rocking and creaking. With a bark of laughter, Cisco concurs, "Nor my family."

"My husband is already near enough a heart attack," Rob concludes.

"Then we venture on as rogues," Hartley says, returning to the wheel while Cisco and Rob finish undocking. Barry can't escape a slight smile at the remark, picking his way across the deck to Iris.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she says, and he's startled by the genuine enthusiasm in her voice, the brightness in her eyes. "I've never sailed in the winter."

Barry just steps up to the helm and looks out at the darkness. _I've never particularly wanted to,_ he admits privately.

And then they're off, and the fight against the seas begins.


	19. Chapter 19

The wind howls.

A thick layer of ice accumulates on the deck, making each step perilous. The ship slips and pitches from side to side, threatening to send everyone aboard into the surging water. Each wave slams into the ship like a beast railing against imprisonment. Despite the danger, the three seasoned sailors do not shout in alarm; they merely hold the _White Hare_ steady, urging it onward. At some indeterminate hour, black ink spills across the horizon, plunging the entire scene into a nightmarish amalgamation of sounds without sources. Wood screams. Water roars.

The wind howls.

A heavy familiar presence settles behind her, hugging her. Iris cannot hear it over the cacophony, but she feels the soft vibration of his hum, a deep-ocean croon. The inaudible reverberation sinks into her back, filling her with warmth. It fans across her chest, chasing away the sharp little points of numbness creeping into her hands where they hold the railing. For a small eternity, he holds her, his body shielding her from the brunt of the wind, his feet planted to stabilize them.

It transforms the scene into something pleasant, knowing that she has the affection of a Siren to keep her above the freezing waters. She turns in his arms and rests her numb cheek against his shoulder. His hum is thicker than honey, a purr, a rolling heartbeat. He releases one arm to hold the railing steady but keeps her close with his free arm, sharing warmth. The chaos of the seas drowns out his voice, but even it cannot touch the light in his heart.

At last, he slides out of her grasp. He shrugs his coat off in a single fluid movement, draping it over her shoulders and tying it carefully at the front. He kisses her forehead, and she closes her eyes, reaching up to hold his arm, but he isn't there. When she opens her eyes, she sees his shadow moving across the ship, approaching another shadow at the stern. The railing is almost painfully cold to touch again, but Iris needs the balance more than she needs to hold onto the Siren's warmth.

In amused bewilderment, she watches Barry reach out and settle a hand on Cisco's shoulder. That is the only contact he initiates, but Iris sees Cisco shiver for the first time in a while. It occurs to her that even without falling into the seas, they're all covered in a thin layer of ice. With Barry's hand on his shoulder, the first mate thaws, fine rivulets of water sheeting off his back and dripping from his elbows. He barely turns away from his task, wrestling with the ship and the seas, but his motion becomes noticeably less choppy. With a sudden jolt of surprise, he reaches up for the hand on his shoulder. Without a word, Barry releases him and melts back into the shadows.

Thus, the ghost in their midst circulates across the ship, giving life where life recedes, providing warmth on a cold wintry night at sea.

It only occurs to Iris on the third or fourth circuit that everything about the scene is unnatural. Whispers of Sirens tug at her memory, stories about Sirens luring sailors into the water, Sirens drowning sailors in the water. The sailors never realized the danger they were in until it was too late. Once under the waves, the Siren's beautiful visage was shattered by the monster's full appearance.

 _You haven't seen the full monster,_ Iris muses, stroking Barry's wrist, warm and human. He squeezes her gently in acknowledgment, but he doesn't say anything, holding her. It would be child's play for him to kill them all. He wouldn't even need to speak. His frame is lean but incredibly powerful, like a big cat, and she has no doubt that he could not only cast her overboard but also Hartley, Rob, and Cisco.

Once in the water, the Siren wouldn't need to do anything. The waves would resolve the problem. He could kill all of them in less time than it took word of his mutiny to ripple across the ship. One instant and it would all be over; there would be no recovering from a plunge into the roiling seas.

Iris curls her hand around Barry's wrist and brings his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it. _You're a Siren_ , she muses, _but there's more to you than the stories._ Unaware of her silent conversation, he hums inaudibly over the howling wind, taking every measure to be careful while still trying to be helpful.

 _There's more to you_.

. o .

As the night drags on, exhaustion begins to take its toll.

Barry's fingers tremble with cold, but he doesn't voice a complaint. It wouldn't change a thing: they're too far from home to return, too far from shore to take shelter. Pacing himself, he prowls the deck in a dozing state, imparting only a hint of warmth to his companions before moving on. He starts skipping Hartley, who is clad in the thickest furs, and Rob, who moves bracingly even when his skin is freezing to the touch, to focus on Cisco and Iris.

Finally, he's just holding onto Iris, protecting the last bit of warmth between them for as long as he can before the wind spirits it away. His breath shudders in his chest; his teeth chatter in his closed mouth. He knows that under the roiling waves, it's warm. He also knows that it's only warm for the Siren; for the human, it's fatally cold.

 _Remember which one you are_.

Their progress is excruciatingly slow, and the wind only seems to sharpen rather than soften with time. He plants his forehead against Iris' shoulder, shielding his own face from it. Huddled together, they are almost warm. Almost.

Reluctantly, he releases her, lingering as long as he dares before checking on the other sailors. Cisco's fingers are so stiff they barely bend in the furskins; hunched inward, Rob moves like a man under a great weight; for all his outward stoicism, Hartley is literally frozen to the wheel. Indeed, none of the sailors voice their grievances, but Barry knows that they're struggling.

 _Sailing in winter is a death sentence_.

Barry remembers, long ago, spending winters on shore. Even on dry land and shielded by the various structures from the cutting wind, he only went outside when it was unavoidably necessary. For the most part, winter was a quiet time, a brutal remonstrance against the human habitants that they owned any part of this land.

Annapurna has always been notorious for its killing cold. Even the fur-traders, used to navigating the northern climes, scrupulously avoid its snow-packed routes once autumn finally breathes its last. While pleasant and free of many other vices in the warmer months, Annapurna is a dangerous place to live in the colder ones. It is simply too cold for humans to comfortably live, and yet they persist, not for any love of harsh conditions, but simply because it is near to the sea, and comfortable enough for most of the year, and extremely pleasant in the summer.

Barry exhales white breath and wonders why they never regarded the trade-off as too steep, why they never marked the space as uninhabitable and moved on. But they _had_ : once the days shortened and the cold crept in, sailing halted. The people of Annapurna judged the land just inhabitable enough in the winter to carry on, but even those hardy shorelanders knew that the water was off-limits.

Their small band has thick fur-skins and thicker skins, committed to the finish, but no amount of will power can combat the hypothermic chill descending over them. Refusing to let them die – _they're doing this for me_ – Barry does what he can to turn an impossible situation into a survivable one.

The night drags on interminably.

. o .

Dawn brings reprieve.

Seemingly all at once, the storm dissipates. The usual wintry chill persists, but it does not pummel them with the same intensity. Frost-nipped blue flesh shines on Cisco's cheekbone and Hartley's fingers, but even they seem in fairly good spirits, resurrected by the rising sun. "Well," Cisco announces, somewhat breathlessly, throat scorched by the cold, "we made it thus far. Congratulations."

Rob spits blood over the side of the ship. "My love for the sea knows no bounds," he muses, leaning back and gingerly pressing his fingers to his split lip. "My love for winter is far less."

"A couple more hours at this pace," Hartley husks, eyes red. "Less, if the wind is on our side."

"Cheers," Cisco says, snagging a hard loaf of bread from a sack and breaking it off into chunks. Distributing them, he muses, "Nothing more dispiriting than traveling on an empty stomach."

Iris takes the offering. Cisco extends one to Barry, leaning heavily against the railing beside her, but he holds up a hand to his mouth and coughs deeply. When the fit passes, he lowers his hand – Iris releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding when there is no blood on it – and accepts the gift. He bows his head in gratitude but doesn't take a bite. Gently, Iris bumps his shoulder with hers, a wordless inquiry: _are you all right?_ He looks up at her, one eyebrow ticking upward slightly before a slow smile crosses his lips.

Iris gratefully tucks into her chunk of bread. It's a small cut, but it's a king's ransom at sea. Barry takes one bite of his own ration, but he grimaces when he swallows it and doesn't eat any more after, holding it out to her invitingly when she finishes her cut. She shakes her head, and he frowns a little, looking down at the bread. He forces down another bite and winces again; she assures, "You don't have to eat it now."

He nods and after a beat tucks the rest into a pocket in his trousers. Above the hip, he's only wearing a tunic, Iris realizes with a jolt. The doubled thickness of her own coat becomes painfully obvious, and she hastily strips off the extra coat. "Barry," she chastises, even as her breath catches at the sudden influx of cold. "You'll freeze to death like that." She guides his arm through a sleeve, coaxing it back over his shoulders and repeating the feat with the other hand. Then she cups his face, holding him and looking into those hazy, greyish-green eyes. "I don't want you to hurt yourself for me," she tells him softly.

He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, eyes closed. Then he pulls back and nods once, turning so he can cough into his hand again.

A low warbling sound draws her attention to the opposite side of the ship. All three sailors pause; Barry straightens, cough tapering off into silence. He approaches the railing stiffly, every step creaking. From the water, Iris sees a grey head partially surface, soulless black eyes fixed on them. The warble rises, until it is loud, reverberating through her bones, and she clutches the railing behind her involuntarily.

Suddenly silent, the seal vanishes below again.

No one speaks for a long time. Then Cisco says slowly, "That was no harp seal."

"No," Hartley agrees.

"Leopard," Rob finishes solemnly. Iris feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"What on Earth is a leopard doing this far north?" Cisco asks, disbelieving.

"I have no idea," Rob admits.

Barry hasn't moved from the railing. He settles his hands on it. Iris hears the wood creak a little.

"If you're trying to kill a leopard, we're better off turning back now," Hartley says shortly. "Those aren't little harpers you can club."

"No," Rob agrees.

"Barry?" Iris asks, ignoring them.

He sways near the railing, like he's listening to a song they can't hear. _Maybe he is_ , she muses. His shoulders tense. He releases the railing. She knows a second before he moves what he is about to do, but before she can take three steps towards him, he's stripped off his coat and cast the bread aside before vaulting over the railing.

Rob shouts, "Are you _mad_?" but there's only a loud splash in response.

. o .

 _Hello, human._

The cold is excruciating, paralyzing, but Barry finds the leopard seal directly across from him.

 _What are you doing here?_ the seal asks, changing the pitch of its strange, sub-vocal warble. To a human, Barry knows, it would appear only to be regarding him in silence before surging forward to maul him.

It's not Oliver, he knows – the spots on its face are all wrong, the voice vaguely softer, higher-pitched – but he doesn't let panic drive him to the surface. That is no longer his choice. The seal will drag him away if he doesn't oblige it. So he forces a barely moving hand to splay across his heart, thumping his chest a few times.

It's a terrible gamble – if the Selkie calls his bluff, then he's a dead man – but it's the only option left to him. After a long moment, a paralyzing moment, the Selkie glides closer. _What happened to your skin?_ it asks, near enough to touch. It nears him, and Barry drapes his arm over its sleek, powerful back, grasping his own wrist to stabilize the hold. The Selkie surges away from the ship in an instant, diving low to escape the rolling waves. _Or are you a deceiver?_ the Selkie muses, curling effortlessly out of his grasp and leaving him utterly alone in the water.

Then he feels pressure at his back and the Selkie pushes him up to the surface with the sort of casual effortlessness that a child uses to direct a puppy. Gasping for breaths that barely want to come, Barry stays afloat with the Selkie's head at his back. The vocalization is louder, now, as the same rolling warble that he knows. He can hear others, more distant, a thrill of horror and wonder passing over him. Then the Selkie vanishes at his back, and he sinks under the surface with it.

 _You should not come to the water without your skin_ , the Selkie tells him, drifting in front of and away from him.

 _He has no skin_ , another Selkie chimes in.

Barry does not turn; he doesn't need to in order to identify the leopard behind his right shoulder.

The first Selkie doubles back, gliding towards him. Interest gleams in those black eyes. _My kind regards it as cannibalistic to consume yours_ , it remarks, _but it is of no concern to us if you humans drown_. It sweeps away, disappearing into the deep.

Sinking, Barry does not blink when he feels pressure under his arm, barely able to grasp the seal's neck. The leopard surges upward, and they breach the surface, the seal's nostrils flaring near him, huge and powerful. Then it disappears under the water, taking Barry with it, and they fly through the water, breaching again within sight of shore. _Amazing_ , Barry thinks, longing to tell the Selkie. Even on his swiftest days, he was nowhere near as powerful as the Selkie under the water; the streamlined seals move with wondering ease below.

They sink again, and then they glide, Barry holding on as best as he can. Suddenly, they're in the shallows, and the leopard nudges him forcefully towards the rocks. He can barely move, but he finds the will to comply as the leopard slides onto the coast. Crawling, he hears the warble of another seal, and very, very faint warbles farther out. _An entire community_ , he muses, coughing harshly.

He blinks for a moment, and then Oliver has a firm human hand on the back of his tunic, hauling him upright and dragging an arm around his shoulders. "Papa?" a voice asks, and Barry's heart clenches in recognition. He can almost see the smaller leopard seal's head in the water, but it's a boy in thick fur-skins regarding him when he opens his eyes. "What's happening?" He sounds fearful, and Barry doesn't blame him. _Humans hunt seals._ Even big seals, but especially the young ones.

He wants to reassure them that he's not there to hunt them – _I am_ – but the head-to-heel numbness overtakes him first, and he passes out.

. o .

It's very warm.

That's Barry's first thought. It makes him think of days on the summer stones, basking in the morning sun. But there's a heaviness on his chest, a softness, too, and he becomes conscious of the thick furs draped over him. He blinks, and there's a haze of tannish-white fur above him, propped up so it does not sit directly on his face. He hears murmuring voices nearby with the occasional laugh of a child intermingled. There's also a crackling fire and the rhythmic orchestration of teeth crunching into crisp meat. He closes his eyes, basking in the peace of the scene for a time.

 _This is family_ , he thinks, and it hurts.

A renewed ache in his chest deepens into a wracking cough. He pushes himself upright slowly, furskin pooling at his hips. Three Selkies regard him, human but clad in their own thick bearskin furs. "You're lucky my son has a soft spot for humans," the eldest, a matriarch, tells him. "No humans venture out to sea this late in the year."

Barry lets his gaze fix on Oliver, who merely raises his eyebrows challengingly. _Play along_ , his expression suggests. Without a word, he finishes the meat off a hare's legbone.

The child sits near the matriarch, back to an exposed earthy wall. They're in a rectangular depression, an oversized hole rigorously and systematically etched into the ground. It must have taken weeks if not months of effort to carve it out. The effort is richly rewarded: the depression sits beneath the wind, and the fire's warmth fans outward to the entire space while the smoke drifts upward. It's very comfortable. "How did you know our sign?" the matriarch asks him, redirecting his attention. She has Oliver's sharp eyes and a regality that befits a queen.

Barry shrugs, uncomfortably aware that holding his silence is a deep affront to Selkies.

 _Answer us_ , they demand.

 _I can't_ , he dares not reply.

"They tell stories, Mother," Oliver interjects at last, casting the bone into the fire and staring him down. "It is not impossible, even as a human, to overhear them."

"Hm." Oliver's mother doesn't seem impressed. "What brings you here?" she asks him.

Barry ducks his head. _I can't say._

"Stories," Oliver repeats dryly. He looks at his son, then, and holds out an arm. The boy crawls over to him and settles under it. "These are our winter grounds," he tells Barry. _This is our home. You wish to invade it?_ "They're not easy to reach."

Barry shrugs a little, apologetically.

"Are you to swim him the entire way back to their shore?" Oliver's mother asks Oliver bluntly. "Or will you give up this ruse of hospitality and dispose of him?"

Oliver huffs a faint laugh. "You saw his ship. He has friends for that."

"Then why," Oliver's mother demands in a dangerously smooth tone, "have we brought him _here_?"

"Because it's on our terms," Oliver replies. He doesn't take his gaze off Barry. "The only thing more dangerous than a Siren in your midst is an uninvited one."

The boy makes an alarmed sound. "A Siren?" he repeats in a small voice. Barry remembers his own boyhood stories of monsters; the idea of meeting any of them would have chilled his blood.

The matriarch is very pale, but her voice is ferocious when she says, "Get him out of here. _Now_."

"He's had every opportunity to kill me," Oliver says coolly. "I do not believe it is his intention."

Barry swallows – _I merely wish to steal one of your skins_ – before dissolving into a fierce coughing fit. "Besides," Oliver adds with something approaching boredom, "look at him. Fearsome creature of the deep, he is not."

"Get out," the woman tells Barry sharply.

Barry nods and starts to stand, but Oliver says shortly, "Halt." Barry sinks back onto his haunches, looking away from them. In a flat, conversational tone, Oliver says, "Thrice, I have had an opportunity to kill you. I've let you live. This is remarkable. You have endangered me. You have endangered my family. You have endangered the Princess of Annapurna." Hunching inward, Barry doesn't respond. "Do you know what happens if a Siren is killed before another appears?" Oliver asks suddenly.

Slowly, Barry nods. _We cannot transcend to the stars. We are trapped here._

Oliver huffs. "No," he says. Barry frowns. "You're too young to know. Four hundred years ago, there was a Siren who was mauled to death by a Selkie." An electric thrill of horror races down Barry's spine at the thought. "The Selkie was young and foolish," Oliver says without a hint of remorse. "He thought he could eradicate Sirens if he killed the most recent incarnation. He wasn't the first to try. And the moment the Siren took its last breath, the Selkie transformed into its successor. The Selkie's name was Eobard Thawne. In his arrogance and foolishness, he became the Siren Who Came Before You. He took a particular dislike towards my kind as a result, believing we were traitors for rejecting him."

It feels like a punch to the gut. Barry doesn't consciously register standing, but he's aware of Oliver doing the same across from him. The matriarch doesn't move, regarding him coolly, and the child crawls over to her side. "So," Oliver continues. "Let's play a game. I kill you." Without heat, he advances until he is mere inches before Barry and produces a short, wicked dagger from nowhere, setting the point up against Barry's ribcage. "I become your successor." He sheathes the knife in a hidden pocket in his furskin. "I let you drown before you choose a successor," he goes on, "and the Princess becomes the next Siren."

Barry shudders. _No_. "She's the last person you enchanted," Oliver explains flatly. "She didn't follow you into the water, so I presume you broke the curse, but she is still the last person you ensnared. You have chosen your successor, Siren, and unless you choose another, she will become the Siren Who Comes After You. That outcome would be rather upsetting for the West family and Annapurna as a whole."

Shaking his head slowly, Barry has to duck his head to cough into his hand. Oliver says bluntly, "I'm rather fond of this place. I would not like to see it fall into the hands of people like the Zolomons, who like to hunt seals. The change wouldn't happen immediately," he adds. "But I have been on this Earth for four-hundred-and-thirty-two years, Siren. Things fall apart. The West's son is kingly enough, but the death of the Heir Apparent is never without consequences. Keeping the Wests in power without revealing my hand is in my best interests."

With a shrug, Oliver finishes, "So long as I desire to live here." He steps back and takes a seat on the earthen ground. Barry mimics him, unconsciously gathering up the white bearskin in his hands. _432_. It's hard to even comprehend. He knows it would be the height of impoliteness to ask, but he can't help his curiosity regarding Oliver's mother. _Seven hundred?_ he muses. _A thousand?_ It's thrilling to imagine, but the matriarch's cool gaze diffuses his enthusiasm. He looks aside. Still, it astounds him, conjuring up a memory of before:

 _It's cruel among my kind to strike a child._

No wonder Oliver thought Barry was a kid. His own Selkid could be twice Barry's age. "I would like to maintain the choice to stay," Oliver continues. "One day, we will leave. But as you have your home, we have ours. And my … _cousin_ …" he rolls a growl in his throat, sounding simultaneously exasperated and fond, "has helped facilitate a relationship with the Wests that would take time to replicate elsewhere."

 _You'll have to forgive my cousin; Oliver did not inherit the richly virtue of common decency. I'm Ronnie Raymond._

"So." Oliver pokes the fire with a stick until the embers rekindle. "We are at an impasse. I kill you, I become a Siren. I let you die, the Heir Apparent becomes the next Siren." Then, lowering the stick, he says bluntly, "Choose another. There are plenty of other humans in the world, many far less prominent than she. There are also Merfolk. A Selkie, if you must."

Barry's stomach turns at the thought. _Enchant someone else?_

"Sailors drown," Oliver continues, oblivious to his inner turmoil, "it is crueler to take her life than it is to take any one of theirs." With dispassionate nonchalance, he points out, "I saw at least three others on your vessel. You easily could have lost one on your journey here. How missed would they be?"

Barry blinks slowly. _Hartley's father. Cisco's brother. Rob's husband._ Looking at the family across from him, he knows he could no sooner break it apart than any of theirs. He shakes his head, trying to clear the mere notion. _I won't kill anybody._ He remembers the back-breaking weight of Hunter Zolomon over his shoulders, and repeats firmly, _I won't kill anybody._

 _You have to_ , a terrible voice reminds him.

An equally terrible idea occurs to him: _if someone else kills you, they'll become the next Siren. It doesn't have to be your kill._

He isn't particularly comforted by the idea of a murderer inhabiting his role, godly power bestowed on an individual who already has a vendetta against Sirens. _Like the Siren Who Came Before You_ , he thinks, and has to shove down the nausea that rises at the thought.

Coughing into the crook of his arm, he cannot respond, but a distant sound breaks across the silence:

" _Land ho!_ "


	20. Chapter 20

With joy in his heart, Barry scrambles out of the Selkie's den.

He sprawls on the hard ground but recovers quickly, throwing himself into a sprint. It's glorious to run, but he doesn't begrudge its brevity as he canters to a halt in the water. "I thought for sure you had drowned," Cisco muses loudly, anchoring the ship. Barry ignores him, yelping in surprise when Iris nearly tackles him from the side.

"Barry, Barry, Barry," she chants, arms curled around his neck. He lifts her easily, hugging her tightly, heart pounding with relief.

 _I could not go on if anything happened to you_.

He carries her back onto the shore, setting her down but staying with her, hunched a little but never happier. "Iris," he whispers, for her alone, and she squeezes him in reply. Splashing through the water, someone else approaches, and he holds his silence, aching though he is to speak to her. _Dusk tonight._

The thought of failure – of it all _ending_ , the end of this happy little dream, this happy little _lie_ – sends a stab of pain through his chest. He lets her go as the ache becomes tangible, coughing harshly into the crook of his arm. His father, a fur-trader, often returned from his journeys with a cold deep in his chest. In Barry's memory, his presence was defined by a chronic cough. _Like father, like son_ , he muses.

"I have excellent news, Princess," Rob announces in a shout down the shore, walking back towards them from some distance. Iris turns, and Barry looks over, breath catching when he sees what Rob has. "Seems a poor creature met its end already," he adds, holding up an adult harp sealskin.

 _There were no harpers_.

Barry tries to visualize the leopards in the water, to find the discrepancy, but they all had the distinct white chins, the bluish tint, and the closely-packed black spots of their kind. Even the littlest among them was unmistakable. _A family of leopards, and a lone harper._

"That's wonderful, Rob," Iris calls back, walking towards him. Barry reaches out quickly, resting a hand on her arm, and Iris pauses, turning to look at him. "Barry," she says softly. She returns to his embrace when he holds out both arms. "This is why we came," she reminds him. He nods once, but he can't escape the sick feeling in his stomach as he loosens his grip. "Come. It'll be all right."

He dares to believe her, letting her go. Walking across the stones feels final, and he is keenly aware of a gaze upon him, even though a quick surreptitious glance around him reveals nothing. _I'm sorry_ , he aches to tell the Selkies, even though he knows it is not any of Oliver's kin. _Yes it is,_ he thinks, throat tight. All Selkies are kin. It's one of the most extraordinary things about them: they almost never fight each other, a globally cooperative species even more tightly knit than humans. To take even one among their number…

"Look at this beast," Rob says wonderingly, holding the sealskin up near the flattened head, and still its tail reaches past the stones. "Is this what you wanted?" he asks Iris.

She glances at Barry, who can only nod once. _It's not Oliver's. It's not his mother's or his child's._

He aches to know whose skin it is, but as he nears the hairs on the back of his neck stand. His steps falter. His breath catches in his chest when he is near enough that Rob holds it out to him. Settling one hand on its deflated shoulder carefully, he feels a violent memory rip his world in two—

 _—and suddenly he is underwater, tearing into a Siren's tail, its sides, its hands and face, anything in reach, until all at once a terrible pain lances through him, halting him. The Siren stops fighting him, but he is descending through the water not as a seal but as the creature of his fury, human hands flailing and bleeding freely, chest punctured, tail torn. He sinks to the bottom of the sea as his own sealskin drifts towards the surface, unbounded—_

Staggering back, he puts his arms across his chest, shaking. "Barry?" Iris asks, settling a hand on his shoulder. The residual sting of teeth makes him jerk it out of her reach without meaning to. "Are you all right?"

 _It's his._

A lump forms in his throat, and he is afraid he might cry for a moment. _It was his_ , he amends, because the Siren Who Came Before Him has been dead for nearly thirty years. The gaze on the back of his neck becomes so intense that he turns, expecting to see Oliver standing right behind him, but there is no one. He exhales shakily, breaking off into another cough. It leaves his chest burning, but it is nothing next to the aching grief.

 _You left me,_ he thinks, reaching for the sealskin. Rob spills it into his hands, and he feels fury surge in his chest. _You_ made _me._ He aches to tear the skin apart, to make its former owner know the pain Barry has endured trying to undo what the Siren Who Came Before Him did in a single moment of casual cruelty.

 _Necessary cruelty. Or he would never have transcended_.

A wicked thought occurs to him: _could you have transcended, with this still here?_ He can almost hear a deep-ocean howl, a furious, terrible sound, and enjoys a vicious moment of satisfaction. Then Iris settles a hand on his shoulder, and the anger disintegrates, leaving only a sick feeling behind. He drops the sealskin. He swallows hard. He aches to apologize, but none of them would understand.

 _Oliver might_. But he can't speak to Oliver – he can't speak to any of them, else he become the monster they have every right to fear – and so he suffocates in silence. He retrieves the skin. He doesn't even hear Rob's message, only the warble of his voice asking something.

Turning away from Rob and the others, he carries the sealskin down the shore in the opposite direction. He barely notices Iris following, her footsteps light on the stones. When he is confidently out of the others' hearing, he pauses and says in a low voice, "I wish I had never brought you into this."

Iris steps up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I would rather live this single life with you," she says seriously, "than a thousand without."

A tear drips down his cheek. He doesn't look at her. "I don't know what unhappy dream I ever entertained, coming ashore."

She squeezes him tightly, resting her cheek against his back. "I'm glad you did. And once you give her the sealskin—"

"I will be a Siren once more." His voice is dull, even to his own ears. "Forever," he clarifies. "I have not the heart to hurt anyone else in pursuit of my own foolishness."

"Barry—"

He breaks free, setting the sealskin down and turning to look at her. Gently, he holds her arms near the elbows, not hugging her but not holding her away, either. Just keeping her near enough to say softly, "This was the best mistake I ever made." He lets her arms go and reclaims the sealskin. It feels heavy, enormously so, in his hands, but he doesn't drop it. "I have to go."

"Barry," she repeats, but he turns away from her.

 _You have another day_ , a soft voice tells him, but he wades out into the ice-cold water heedlessly.

 _I cannot endanger them a moment more._

He is duly terrified that he will lose his courage and be unable to hand over the deceased Selkie's sealskin. _I must do this. I must live so that no one else will suffer_.

He would rather live ten thousand years in perfect solitude than doom another to this fate. And never, ever her.

 _She's the last person you enchanted_.

The sealskin drags in the water. He doesn't care, striding forward. Rob's voice is growing louder, and he can hear Cisco's offshore, but he doesn't acknowledge them. Once the water is waist-deep, he takes a last breath of air, a cold, brief thing, and disappears under the surf.

. o .

Their exchange under the water is silent.

The Siren holds out Eobard's sealskin to her. She smiles a little; she hoped he would find it. There weren't many other Selkies near the shores here. She would have retrieved it herself, had it not drifted ashore centuries ago. The eels preside over the sea goddess' shoulders, watching her take it from him.

 _Goodbye, old friend._ In an instant, the sealskin vanishes. The Siren before her startles back in surprise, looking a little bluish around the edges. _You won't last long in these waters as a human,_ she muses.

He looks at her, and she merely arches her eyebrows. At last, impatiently, he gestures at his legs, still human, still kicking unevenly in the water. Her smile grows a little, amused. He frowns, bluish around the edges already.

Nep says, _Go back ashore, human_.

But the Siren – the _human_ – doesn't respond. Finally, she drifts closer and says simply, "Go. Be with your kind." She gives him a nudge with a tentacle. He stares at her. "You are no Siren," she says, pushing him along, now. "Not anymore. Consider it my _gift_."

She wants to laugh, and Tune gives the tiniest little hiss of amusement, because it's far from a free trade.

Catching on slowly – she can't entirely blame him; the water _is_ atrociously cold to humans – he surges towards the surface, breaching it and drawing in a gasp of breath. Shakily, he makes his way towards shore. A fellow human finally grasps him and nearly drags him out of it, chastising him loudly. Lisa ignores them, drifting back out into deeper water, eel hovering near either shoulder.

Nep asks impatiently, _When?_

Lisa smiles and says nothing.

. o .

"Have you not the first sense of self-preservation?" Hartley demands, thumping Barry hard on the back. He coughs up water, shaking his head slowly, apologetic and confused.

"Where's the skin?" Rob asks farther up-shore.

Barry looks up. His blood chills. _Where's Iris?_

He breaks free of Hartley's grasp and turns in a full circle, but she's nowhere to be found. Turning to Hartley, he grasps the man's shoulders hard, but his grip isn't as firm as before – there's a decided weakness in his limbs that has nothing to do with the cold. Letting Hartley go, he staggers back up to the rocks, doing another circle, tightness building in his chest. _Where is she?_

Dread pools in his stomach. He hums a little, but the sharp coldness does not retreat. "Where's the Princess?" Hartley asks finally.

"She was with you," Rob points out, nodding at Barry.

Barry hums louder, but the expected warmth never comes.

 _You are no Siren._

He exhales harshly. "What have you done with her?" Hartley demands, fisting the back of his tunic.

Barry pushes him away, but his shove lacks its usual ferocity. Everything about him feels weaker, more – more _human_. Realization sinks in. His heart stops.

 _No._

 _No, no, no, no, no._

"Iris?" he shouts, heedless of his audience. " _Iris!_ " He wades back out into deeper water because no, no, no, _no_ , this wasn't the agreement, this wasn't the trade, he _doesn't want this_ — He fists both hands into his hair, panic surging through him, breath coming in short gasps.

 _Where is she?_

. o .

Staring at the roof of the world, Iris lies on her back and watches the waves roll over her for a time.

 _They're beautiful._

She's astounded by how clear her vision is, holding up a hand and staring at it, wiggling her fingers and their little black claws. Her body moves easily, seemingly effortlessly through the water. When she sits up, she feels powerful, like no creature of the deep could touch her. She looks down and sees the paddle-like tail, but it doesn't alarm her. Gliding a hand across the side of it, she marvels at how it feels, how acutely sensitive it is. She is certain she could feel a feather on it.

The cold, the hunger, the fatigue, the teeth-aching stress – all of it is gone. She feels amazing. Pushing off the rocks, she paddles through the water with ease, cutting across the powerful current overlying her. The sharp urge to resurface and fill her lungs with air never arrives. She drifts endlessly through the sea, marveling at it.

 _It must be marvelous. Under the sea. What's it like?_

 _Empty. But it's a very peaceful empty._

It's exhilarating. It's liberating. _There is no part of the world I could not go_ , she thinks. She wonders how long it would take her to travel it, to scour every corner. (A voice from memory drifts to her: _My predecessor was nearly five hundred_ …) With enough time, there is nothing out of her reach. The breathless poles could not touch her; the exotic tropics could only draw her closer. Oh, to run away!

It's a wanderlust she has known since childhood. When she was a girl, she chased the setting sun and the golden blaze at the horizon. She pursued the top of the highest peaks, hopeful and eager even when she was doubled over and panting hard, because what a dream, to know the land of the gods! From the castle, she looked out across the town and saw an ocean beyond it, wondering just how far the sailors would take her, how much world was truly out there. _Is it as magnificent as it seems?_

She surfaces, and the air is pleasantly cool. The whole world seems better-suited for her, now, like she is a creature who truly belongs in this realm. No longer is she a desperate animal eking out an existence on the sides of mountains or at the foot of the ocean. She is part of the earth, as much as the mountains, as much as the oceans. She knows she could outlive both, given enough time.

Dipping back under, she glides low, curving over the floor of the world. There is so much to _see_ – everything is different here. Where short, sharp, hard grass should be, only the stones dwell. She finds huge cracks in the ocean floor, several large enough for she to squeeze through them, but she leaves them be. There will be all the time in the world to explore them, she tells herself, plunging onward. Drinking it all in, she pauses and twists when a hint of blue catches her eye.

Sweeping around, she stares at the little blue stone for a time, caught in a small little crevice. Short black claws that scarcely seem to belong to her reach out, pinning the stone between thumb and forefinger. She turns it over slowly, a different emotion welling up in her chest.

 _She remembers standing on the shore, holding her white shawl steady in a hand, a fierce wind threatening to snatch it away. Summer was long gone, autumn gasping for breath, but she refused to be deterred from her shore any longer than she had to. What was the purpose of living so near the water, only to shy away from it?_

 _She wasn't looking for anything in particular, but the glint of blue light against the grey stones caught her eye instantly. Crouching, she takes it in hand, holding it up to capture the midday light. It takes her breath away, its clarity and color, and she hears a loud scraping sound nearby, like stone-on-stone. She turns sharply and catches a glimpse of something disappearing under the water._

 _It must have been a wave._

But she knows, now, that it was him.

Heart in her throat, she holds onto the little blue stone, suddenly, intensely aware of how _empty_ the whole ocean is.

Closing her eyes, she asks herself, _What would you trade for the chance to walk on another world?_

The simple stuff is easy to imagine: a sum of money ( _I have plenty to spare_ ), an opportunity to travel elsewhere ( _where else would I need to go, with the world at my fingertips?_ ), a treasured item ( _little blue stones_ ).

Then there are the more complicated choices: a minute of your life ( _how better would I spend it, than to know this happiness under the sea?_ ), an irreplaceable keepsake ( _the view on the mountains_ ), a favorite scent ( _woodruff_ ).

Still there are sharper cuts to be made: an hour of your life ( _I do not need them all to live a good one_ ), your right hand ( _I could live with my left alone_ ), your home ( _is there a place on Earth that could not be home to me?_ ).

At last there are sacrifices that give pause to the steadiest hand: the loss of sight ( _what of those golden sunsets?_ ), the future deprivation of pleasure ( _to never be happy again for the sake of happiness now?_ ), the inability to express oneself fully, to laugh, to sing ( _will I not miss laughter and song?_ ).

The sweeping solitude of discovery – the electrifying thrill of being alone – the terror of reaching out for a hand that will never be there – the devastation of finding oneself unreachable, a world unto oneself –

Iris opens her eyes.

Tucking the little blue stone between her teeth, conscious of her own sharply-pointed canines, she drifts back to the surface and looks out at the shore. She hovers in the waves for a time, aching suddenly for home. _This is what you have chosen_ , she tells herself.

A fierce determination lights up her chest. She dives below again, escaping the chop of the waves and following the current northward. _It's what I have agreed to_ , she amends. _It's not what I have to accept_.

From the shore where she first met the Siren Who Came Before Her, the Siren Who Is swims north.

. o .

Breathing deeply, raggedly, Barry paces the shore, frantic and furious at himself.

 _What happened?_

The others are still arguing about it, but he can't join them. He can't focus on anything. _Find her. Find her now, before it's too late._

"Iris," he says out loud, mostly to himself. It's strange and a little disarming to speak within earshot of the others, but they haven't changed their behavior towards him. The song in his heart is a language he cannot speak anymore. On some quiet level, it's heartbreaking.

 _What would you trade? The ability to sing that song?_

He wades out into the water a little, ignoring the knife-like chill that sinks into his calves. He hadn't realized how much Siren warmth he'd been putting out until it was completely taken away; it's nearly unbearable to stand in, but he doesn't retreat. He looks out at the vast waters, surging around him, a creation greater than he has any potential to know. _I could live ten thousand years_ , he thinks, _and I may never find you again._

Hunching inward, he smothers a cough against his palm.

To be human is a gift, but to be without her is an unmitigated loss.

Hartley barks, "Get out of the water, unless you care to drown." Barry sinks to his knees, hands numb but still grasping at the grey stones underneath them.

 _Please,_ he thinks, entreating the ocean itself, _please, take me instead._

But as silent as he, the ocean does not answer. He goes without protest when Cisco finally tugs his arm, grunting, "We'll find her. She probably wandered off into the woods."

Barry shakes his head.

 _She was right with me._

Turning to Cisco, he puts a frozen hand on the man's frozen shoulder. The dark stain of frostbite is still visible on Cisco's cheekbones. Firmly, Barry enunciates, "She's out there."

Cisco's eyebrows arch to his hairline. "You speak?"

An exasperated huff turns into another chest-crackling cough. He ducks his head, smothering it in his sleeve. "Princess Iris," he says at last, voice hoarse. "She's – she's out there."

Cisco stares at him. "She's – you mean out on the water?" he clarifies.

"No." Barry straightens, pointing to the water itself. " _In_."

Cisco looks ashen. "Oh, Gods be good." He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, looking at the water. "How?" he asks, voice bone-dry.

"I don't know," Barry admits.

With sudden violence, Cisco fists the front of his tunic and demands, "How can you not _know_?"

"I wasn't—" Making a strangled sound, Barry says, "I was preoccupied."

"She's the _Princess_ ," Cisco yells, drawing the others' attention to them. "Why would you let her out of your sight for even a _moment_?"

"Cisco," Rob warns, but Barry holds up a hand towards him, halting the man.

"I don't believe she is dead," he says. He hates the way it sours like a lie in his stomach. _I won't entertain it. I refuse to believe it._ "I think…" His throat tightens. He almost can't say it. "I think we've … traded places," he says at last.

It takes a long moment for comprehension to dawn on Cisco's features. When it does, he releases Barry, staggering backwards. He looks at Barry with newfound horror, like he's seeing him for the first time. He cannot speak at first, opening his mouth before shutting it. He looks out at the way, then back at Barry, and finally points out to the waves. "You mean to say … _she_ is …" Barry nods slowly.

"She's what?" Rob asks, pausing near them. Hartley trails silently, gaze fixed on the water.

Silence seems suddenly comforting, an easy way out of telling the truth. _You have no reason to keep it any longer_. Exhaling, he finishes, "She's alive." _I think. I hope. I must believe_.

"Then where—" Rob begins.

"I don't know," Barry replies, cutting him off. Shrugging helplessly, he admits, "I – I don't know _why_ –" Anger rises in his chest. He doesn't bother hiding it. "I don't care _why_ ," he snaps. "I will find and kill the sea _witch_ who did this—"

"A sea witch?" Hartley asks in drawling disbelief. "Next you'll tell us the Loch Ness monster is—"

"No realer than a child's fantasy," Oliver Queen finishes. His footsteps are so quiet he approaches nearly silently, but all four men turn to regard him. "Hello, Siren. What happened to your voice?"

. o .

Adorned in a royal blue coat, a beautiful woman steps ashore.

Unaccompanied, she wanders across the grey shore, a sheet of ice coating the rocks. It does not interrupt her step; her grace is such that she moves as though entirely unencumbered. The air is brisk and clear before her, providing a broad view of the town.

A white weasel pokes its head out of a pocket near her waist; a second grey one appears in the opposite one. _Will this work?_ it asks.

The woman laughs. "Yes," she says simply. The weasels slink back out of sight.

Treading lightly, silently, across the way, she weaves through the town in the shadows, passing countless humans unnoticed. Then she pauses and smiles. "Brother."

"Sister," the god of chaos drawls, stepping up alongside her. He's in decidedly darker blues, almost black, designed to disappear in crowds. "What brings you on land?"

The goddess of the sea smiles. "I heard you were up to no good."

The man shrugs modestly. "Something like that," he says elusively. Their voices do not carry beyond the small space; Lisa knows it is the manner of deities among humans, ever-oblivious to their presence. "I thought your confinement prevented you from venturing ashore."

"No longer. I have made a trade."

The man huffs softly. "Mortals. It's almost cruel to use them."

"Lucky for us," Lisa muses, stepping forward. "Keep your Rogues out of my way."

"Oh, they'll only cause a little trouble," Leonard Snart assures. "I _would_ like my Siren back," he adds pointedly.

Lisa waves a hand dismissively. "Then go find him," she tells him. "I have a kingdom to overturn."


	21. Chapter 21

"Father!"

Standing in the center of the town-square, clad in regal grey furs, the King turns towards his daughter. "Iris," he breathes, crossing the snow in six great strides. "We've been looking all night—"

"I'm sorry." A young man her age drapes a coat over her shoulders; she holds onto it with a hand. "I – I lost my way." Her voice sounds thin to her own ears; tears prickle at the corner of her eyes. "You were right."

The King folds her into his arms. "About what?" he asks gravely.

"About the –" she clutches him, sobbing, "the _monster_."

The King inhales sharply. "What did he do?" he demands. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," she sobs, holding on tightly. "Please, Father, you have to –"

"We'll find him," the King assures her. "He will not walk freely again."

Against the King's shoulder, wearing the image of his daughter, Lisa smiles a little, just to herself. "Thank you, Father."

. o .

Barry stalks towards the Selkie. "Did you do this?" he asks in a low voice.

"Did I do what?" Oliver asks flatly. His stance doesn't change; he doesn't even blink.

Fury surges across Barry's chest. "Where is she?" he demands, hating how his voice trembles. "What did you do?"

Oliver arches his eyebrows. "What did _I_ do?" he repeats, a hint of contempt in his tone. "You're looking at the wrong mirror, Siren."

Barry throws a punch at his face; Oliver captures his hand before it makes contact and twists it hard, shoving him back. Snarling, Barry charges, aiming low and driving the Selkie to the ground. The visceral satisfaction is short-lived: they barely hit the shore before Oliver rolls him and pins him hard. "En _ough_ ," Oliver snaps.

Barry is weaker than his preternaturally strong Siren self, but he's still a powerful animal in his own right, fueled by fury: when he drives up his knee into Oliver's ribcage, it nearly breaks something.

Before Barry can press the sudden advantage and throw him off, Oliver grabs his right hand and twists sharply. Something _pops_ , and Barry yells, pain surging up his arm. "Enough," Oliver repeats shortly. He doesn't release Barry's wrist.

Panting, Barry glares up at him, ordering through gritted teeth, "Let _go_."

Wordlessly, Oliver twists and shoves his wrist back into alignment, pushing off him with a shove to the chest that feels like a punch to the gut. "You're not a fighter. That'll kill you one day, Siren."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Barry breathes in deeply. "I don't need to fight." Grimacing, he sits up slowly, glaring at the Selkie. "And I – I'm not a Siren." Flexing his fingers gingerly, he hisses out a breath. "Not anymore."

"Are we done?" Cisco asks, approaching cautiously. He has both hands out as though to put space between them. Barry makes a disgusted sound. Oliver doesn't even acknowledge Cisco. It makes anger burn hotter in Barry's chest, the casual Selkie contempt.

A deep, wracking cough prevents him from giving voice to his fury. By the time the cough tapers off, the anger has faded. Only coolness remains in its wake. "You knew he was a Siren?" Cisco asks Oliver, oblivious to his inner turmoil.

Oliver nods. "It wasn't hard to discern," he lies coolly.

Barry aches suddenly, viciously to expose him: _he knew I was a Siren because he's a Selkie. He's no different than me. We're both monsters to your kind. We can kill humans in a heartbeat if we choose to._

The intrusive thought doesn't drive him into a frenzy. It saps the last of his strength. _This isn't who you are. This is the monster._ The realization makes him feel sick. How many days or weeks or even months it would take before he finally _snapped_ and hurt someone? He already knows he can. He remembers lashing out at Oliver, slowing down only when he saw Iris. The thought that it could happen _again_ –

He grits his teeth and pushes himself shakily to his feet. He feels cold and sore, exhausted and heartbroken. _I did this to myself. This is my fault._ "I'm sorry," he tells Oliver. He makes a vague gesture with his left hand, bowing his head a little. _For everything_.

Oliver nods once. His entire demeanor radiates calm authority. "Me too," he says. Barry looks up at him incredulously. "It's cruel to strike a child," he recites.

Barry glares. "I'm not a child."

Oliver folds his arms. He's not even ruffled by their fight. Barry's still shaking visibly. "Mm-hm." His tone says one thing: _leave it._ To pursue the conversation would reveal him to the others. Barry sighs, reaching up to rub the back of his neck before wincing and lowering his hand again. "So. You're human." It's not a question. "The Princess has succeeded you." He looks at the others pointedly, then back at Barry. He doesn't need to say it out loud for Barry to hear it: _Bad choice._

Defensively, Barry straightens and puts a hand out to halt Cisco from approaching. "I'm not a killer," he says softly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cisco tense. "This shouldn't have happened," he continues, shaking his head. "I – our deal was…" His voice trails off.

 _You have until dusk on the third day._

His breath hitches in surprise. "There's still time," he realizes. "We still have _time_ ," he repeats emphatically, looking at Oliver and Cisco. "I have until dusk on the third day before I have to return to the sea." When neither of them respond, he finishes, " _Today_ is the third day."

Cisco blinks slowly. "So you're saying …"

"We have until dusk," Oliver finishes, "to find the Princess."

Barry nods, relief surging through him. "That was the deal," he says fiercely. "It hasn't been honored yet. Whatever – whatever _this_ is," he explains, trying to suppress the anxiety that rushes back to the surface as he flexes his left hand, his human hand, "it's breaking the agreement."

"How ironclad is this agreement?" Hartley asks dryly, stepping up behind him. "Because, you know, the Princess of Annapurna's life is at stake."

Barry can't look at him. "It'll work," he says firmly. "She just … she needs to be near the shore when the time arrives, or …" He swallows.

"Or?" Cisco prompts.

Barry's voice is thin, fear returning as he looks out at the fierce wintry waters. "Or there is a very good chance she'll drown."

. o .

Iris drifts northward, gliding low.

She rolls leisurely in the water, basking in how easy it is. Even as a girl, leaping fearlessly into the surf, she never found this kind of comfort. She was an intruder, hopeful and excited but ill-suited for the frigid cold of even the summer currents. Back then, she could only stay in the water for a few moments before racing ashore again and tucking herself in furs to warm up before repeating the task, ad infinitum.

Now, she could stay down here forever.

She can't shake the feeling that she's _meant_ to be here. Wally could surely rule in her place; he would make a fine king. Annapurna would be lucky to have him. Meanwhile, she could drift the oceans, partaking in all the treasures that no human could hope to find, encountering creatures most only mused about. Merfolk and Selkies and all manner of sea creatures! What a life to _live_!

 _Why did you come on shore?_ she muses, the little blue stone between her teeth silently encouraging her to press onward. _Why walk away?_

She surfaces again to get her bearings before diving back under, arcing along the shoreline. Perhaps, she muses, it's the ache for another Siren that drives some of them ashore. It does seem a lonely life to live without any of one's own kind. _All of us are alone_ , she thinks, surfacing again. Not much has changed: endless ocean and the bare shore, the ruthless winter winds swelling the waves without driving her away.

Ducking down, she considers turning back and finding her home shore again. Maybe she could persuade someone to join her in the water, to _look_ at all of this, but she isn't human anymore, and any human would surely die in these conditions. _In summer_ , a quiet voice insists. _It would be lovely. Who would want to leave any of this?_

She surfaces again, and then she sees him, standing nearly chest-deep in the water, attention on the ship that the others are working on. Seeing him makes something _click_ in Iris' chest. _Run away with me,_ she wants to ask him. She knows he would. All she would have to do is ask. _Let's live a perfect little life together. Let's run away together._

She ducks below, careful not to float too close to the waves and give herself away. No urgency presses her to resurface for breath, so she merely glides forward until she is close enough to reach out and graze her short-clawed hand across his waist, dropping the blue stone into his pocket. He startles, but before he can react, she's gone, gliding up the coast, feeling playful.

She resurfaces a good distance up the shoreline, just enough to see him back on land, gaze drifting inexorably towards her. His shoulders sink with relief. She smiles and disappears under the waves. _Catch me if you can_ , she challenges, paddling lazily up the shoreline. In five broad strokes, she's put him nearly fifty feet behind her. Above the water, she arches an eyebrow at him.

He huffs, and then he breaks into a run, full-tilt, down the coast, ignoring the indistinct shouts of their companions behind him. She grins and ducks below, gliding across the shoreline with a little more speed. She stays under the surface longer than nearly any human could hope to, returning at last for a glimpse of him.

He's flushed with exertion, but when he canters to a halt a few feet behind her on shore, he's beaming with joy. He waves a hand at her in acknowledgment, and she finally takes pity on him, doubling back underwater and gliding up until she's at his location. When she surfaces, she sees that he's moved a little farther up the coast, but he looks around and finally sees her, hastily course-correcting before she disappears again.

"Iris," he calls out breathlessly, splashing into the water carelessly. "Iris—" He pauses to cough into his shoulder. She closes the gap, tangling her arms around his waist. He's shaking hard. It occurs to her that he'll freeze to death if she keeps him in the water. Concern shoulders aside relief, and she disentangles her grip, drifting out of reach.

He doesn't retreat to the shore. No: he follows her as though drawn on a string. She glides closer and puts both hands on his chest, halting him. He takes her hands in his own frozen ones and entreats, "D-d-don't g-go."

She squeezes his fingers before gently pushing their hands against his chest again. _Go_.

He shakes his head adamantly. "At d-d-dusk," he stutters, white clouds following every breath, "the sp-spell will wear o-o-off. Y-you'll be human a-again."

She pushes him back towards the shore. He holds his ground – tries to. He stumbles back a step, and she pauses, letting him right himself. Waiting until he meets her gaze, she shakes her head. He frowns. "Th-that was the d-deal," he tells her. She shakes her head again. Heartbreak pools in his eyes. "I-Iris?"

She lets go of one of his hands, reaching up to brush the freezing tear from his cheek. _It's all right_. She smiles reassuringly, but it only draws another tear. She brushes it away, too, her chest tight. Slipping back under the waves, she glides up the shallows, stopping when there is scarcely enough water to buoy her. She surfaces and slides a few feet back, nearly out of the water. He turns and wades back towards her, collapsing onto the rocks next to her and exhaling hard. "I f-f-forgot how c-c-c-cold Anna-p-purna was," he says aloud, teeth chattering as he draws his knees up to his chest.

There's a deep warbling sound nearby, a rolling, otherworldly croon that drags out into the deep water, and then a massive grey seal head emerges just above the waterline, not three feet from them. Barry tenses, straightening his legs, prepared to fight, but Iris watches the beast with idle curiosity and amazement bordering on awe. Those black eyes, so soulless on the ship, are bright, intense, _alive_. _Stars live in those eyes_ , she muses, reaching out a hand. Its gaze hasn't left Barry, but it doesn't twitch when she rests her hand on its head. The fur there is surprisingly soft, and tough.

She's heard stories of sailors clubbing young harp seals for sport. She suspects even a strong axe wielded by a well-built sailor would be insufficient to dent the magnificent skull under her hand. The leopard seal exhales deeply, displacing water, and she removes her hand. Its head turns, gaze fixing on her for a moment, and then it flickers back to Barry.

Aloud, Barry greets in a husked-out voice, "Selkie."

The warble grows to a nearly painful pitch, vibrating the water on top of its back. _Siren_ , it replies. Iris startles, looking at Barry for confirmation that he _heard_ that, he must have, but he frowns at her uncomprehendingly. When the Selkie commands, _Human_ , she looks at it. _We need to talk_ , it says simply, vanishing under the waves.

She turns to Barry and holds up a hand. _Stay_. He frowns and shakes his head, but she pushes her hand forward a little and drifts back out into the water. _Stay_.

Before he can even stand, she ducks under the waves, following the warble farther out to sea. _Follow me_ , the Selkie commands. _Make no sound._

Easy enough. The Selkie is swifter, but she feels no urgency, drifting after it. They halt some distance from shore, still under the waves, and the Selkie turns to regard her. _My kind has no love for Sirens,_ the Selkie preludes. _Nor does any creature of the sea._

Iris frowns. The Selkie goes on, drifting in a slow circle around her, just out of reach. _Many have tried to extinguish your kind,_ the Selkie continues. _None have succeeded. The most fortunate among them never came close to success._ The seal glides away, a shadow in the deep but still plainly visible for what it is.

 _Today, you are still human,_ the Selkie adds, vaulting back, drifting closer towards her. Moving slowly towards her, there is something very predatorial about it. _Your heart is human. Your love of life and land is human. But within a year, a decade, a century, any trace of that will have been scoured from memory. You will be a Siren, as devastating to my kind as any before you, and any after._ It pauses directly in front of her, and in the water, it just seems huge. _It is not a fate I wish to see befall you_.

Iris thinks about the Siren Who Came Before Her – _Barry; his name is Barry_ – and tries to reconcile his boyish enjoyment of life with the Selkie's warning. She shakes her head. _You're wrong_ , she wants to say.

 _Look what he has done to you,_ the Selkie continues, drifting away, ignoring her unspoken thought. _Even attempting to be kind, he has thrust this fate upon you. It is better to die at a Siren's hands than become one._

She follows the Selkie, aching to give voice to her thoughts, but she heeds its warning – _make no sound_ – for she knows what she can do. Even knowing that she wields absolute power over the Selkie, she finds herself more than a little cautious in its company. No life-loving human would threaten one. _No death-fearing Siren, either_ , she muses.

 _Fortunately, this is not permanent,_ the Selkie tells her, turning its head to regard her. _At dusk, the spell will wear off. The Siren masquerading as a man will return to the sea, and you will return to your happy human life._ The Selkie presses onward, humming, a low warble that is so soft it's musical. _I can only urge you to part ways. A Siren's love is a lie in nearly every occasion, and a tragedy in every exception._

The Selkie sweeps away from her, but Iris doesn't follow.

 _"I love you," she tells Barry, and means it._

 _He breaks free of her hold, clutching his hair in both hands. "I don't want it," he spits, and she sees blood accompany the words, and wonders when he bit his tongue. "I don't want it, I don't want it, I – " Tearing at his tunic with sudden fury, he roars, "I_ don't want it _._ "

She surfaces, unable to bear the suffocating pressure in her chest. With her back to the now-distant shore, she doesn't dare look at him. _I don't have to follow you_ , she thinks, sinking back under the surf. _But I don't know how to walk away_.

Gliding back towards the shore, she surfaces.

Knees drawn up to his chest, preserving the little warmth left to him, he certainly _looks_ human. His eyes soften when he sees her, a tiny, anxious smile crossing his lips. He doesn't move as she approaches, doesn't flinch when she curls a clawed hand around his wrist, still resting on his knee. She holds it for a long moment, hovering in the space between acceptance and denial, moving forward and moving on.

Slowly, he turns his hand, and the little blue stone shines in his palm. "I love you, Iris," he breathes.

. o .

There is no conceivable way to make Iris any more beautiful than she already is.

But shining, radiant, and full of life, she is perhaps at her peak magnetism as she hovers in the water before him. Even the little black claws only accentuate her regality. She seems perfectly at home in her own Siren form, like any of the countless Merfolk he has seen from afar, or even the sleek-lined Selkies in their aesthetically-pleasing continuity.

Knowing how nearly he has lost her, how lucky he is to have found her again, he finds the words. "I loved you b-before I knew what the word _love_ m-meant," he confesses softly, taking her hand in his own and intertwining their fingers, the stone captured between them. "There were s-s-so many times w-when I wanted t-to tell you. But I c-couldn't." He exhales deeply; it crackles in his dry throat, his aching lungs. "I c-couldn't hurt you.

"A-and then, w-when you were – ensnared," he gasps, straining to get the words out before his breath freezes over entirely, "I-I didn't want to l-l-love you in any w-way that w-wasn't s-s-sincere. I d-d-didn't want _your_ l-love if it wasn't s-s-sincere. It wasn't r-r-right." He closes his eyes, unable to take the affection in her eyes as she looks up at him. "I am so, s-so sorry for p-putting y-you in this position."

She squeezes his hand lightly. He brings it to his face, his frozen cheek, and says firmly, "Th-there is n-no part of m-me, Siren or human, that d-doesn't love you." Letting her hand go slowly, he presses the blue stone against her palm. "You should be so _loved_ , I-Iris, and I – I c-can't give that to y-you. N-not all of it," he clarifies with a huff, catching her when she surges up to hug him. "I w-want you t-to have a _full_ life," he finishes.

She exhales like she wants to say something, splaying her hands against his back. He shuffles back into the waves, kneeling so he can hold her properly in his arms. Even through numb hands and thick furskins, he is overwhelmed by the proximity. It feels like there is nothing between them, not even breath. After nearly twenty years without even a hug for solace, it feels like the whole world to hold her in his arms.

"Tonight, at d-d-dusk," he repeats softly, quietly, pained, "all will be r-right a-a-again."

She shakes her head against his shoulder. Fervently, he insists, "It w-will. The curse will be r-reversed, and—"

She leans back, taking his head in her hands. Both her palms are cool but warmer than anything around them. Looking right into his eyes, she shakes her head clearly. He frowns, holding her elbows gently. "Tell me," he insists, because he will never guess and can never know what secret she holds through gaze alone. "P-please. I don't," with a breathless laugh, he admits, "I don't think you c-c-can ensnare me a-any more th-thoroughly than I already a-am."

She looks at him for a long moment, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone thoughtfully. He can barely feel it. It doesn't matter. He would rather freeze to death in her arms than return to the shore without her. He tightens his grip just a little, trying to convey his sincerity in a way she trusts.

"Barry," she says at last, and he laughs with relief, warmth spreading through him.

"I love you," he tells her, pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes. "I love you so, so, so much—"

She reaches up and squeezes his neck gently. "I love you," she says simply.

It is pure music to his ears. The cold melts away. The aches vanish as though they never were.

"A life for a life," Iris muses, and Barry frowns, pulling back to look at her. "To save yours," she elaborates, releasing him. He inches closer in the water, still on his knees, refusing to let her drift into nothingness without him. "She wanted a trade."

She arches her tail out of the water in an imitation of a shrug. He stares at it, astounded – there's a hint of silver to it, a gorgeous glint that stands out against the dark green waves before it vanishes below them. "Barry," she begins, like she's rallying herself to break a hard truth. Then she softens her voice, saying simply, "Bar." His heart skips a beat, a smile melts across his face. "You died."

He nods, sobering a little. He dreamed it, but – _no. That was real_. It doesn't feel real. "Yes," he agrees anyway.

"When you died," she says slowly, carefully, "the goddess appeared."

Barry frowns. "Goddess?" he repeats incredulously. Then, when it clicks, he stares at her in disbelief. "You mean to say … the woman, she …"

Iris nods, smoothing the furskin down on his side. "She said she would bring you back if I gave her something in return."

Barry's breath catches. He feels sick. "Iris," he rasps. "Please, please tell me you gave her … _anything_ , but …"

"A life for a life," she repeats simply.

He closes his eyes. "I don't understand."

"I didn't, either," Iris admits. "At first. She said she wanted my crown." Barry looks at her, frowning. "I thought she meant my lifestyle," she muses. "My claim to the throne. But," smiling ruefully, she says, "I see now she wanted something more literal."

Barry shakes his head. "So you … you gave … your life—" He swallows hard. He can't finish the thought. _For me._

Iris nods once. "The trade wouldn't happen until she received the sealskin. She wanted both." She shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know why."

Barry thinks about the – _goddess'_ smile when he gave her the Selkie's sealskin. "I think…" He trails off, shaking his head a little. "Selkies, they … they can … transform, when they put on or take off their sealskins," he explains haltingly.

He waves a hand at the water. Oliver is nowhere to be seen, but he's not surprised. _Keep your distance from the Sirens_.

It's strange to even think: Sirens. Plural.

"I've never heard of a non-Selkie using one," Barry continues, "but … a _goddess_ …" He frowns. "I suppose it's _possible_ ," he permits. "If that was her intention, then –" He shrugs, exhaling shakily and drifting a little closer. Iris squeezes his waist, and he can't help but smile a little. "She's on land," he surmises.

Iris nods. "Most likely."

"And we're …" He laughs. It's all so absurd he can't help but be humored. "We're a little out of sorts because I …" He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm supposed to be dead. Twice, I think." He takes her hands, the little claws pressing against the backs of harmlessly. "Once as a human on the beach, at Zolomon's hand," he clarifies, "and – and again, as a Siren, when I gave her the sealskin. Because I didn't transform. _You_ did. Which means …" He cocks his head. "Which means I shouldn't be alive at all."

It makes something chill in his stomach. He looks around, asking softly, "This is – this is _real_ , right?" It seems terribly cold to be death, but he's never – well, he _has_ died, and yet it didn't seem like—

She cups his face. "This is real," she assures softly.

Looking at her, his heart rate slows down. Some of the trepidation melts out of his shoulders. Unconsciously, he hums a little, a mimicry of that song that has scarcely faded from his heart, and she mirrors it, that deep, familiar, ethereal sound bringing calm to mind. _Two Sirens_ , he muses. _An oxymoron_.

There is only ever one.

But Barry remembers being seven-years-old and following the Siren Who Came Before Him through the sea, even as his predecessor nursed that terrible, mortal wound. Barry doesn't remember surfacing for air, tail paddling after him where legs should have been. Already, even then, before the Siren Who – before _Eobard_ drew his last breath, Barry was a Siren. And for that happy time, there were two Sirens in the world.

It makes his heart ache. _Two Sirens_. What a beautiful notion.

He wades out into deeper water, into the ocean he knows. The cold is sharp, his human lungs demanding breath as the air tries to freeze the breath out of him, but this is still _home_ to him. It's still home. And he is still _alive,_ as a human, as a Siren. She drifts around him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, hovering in the water.

"How often do you think a goddess becomes entangled in her own promises?" Barry muses. "Because surely, I cannot be both dead and alive, Siren and human, while you are …" stroking her arm, he finishes, "you are extraordinary as ever."

She tugs him and he turns to face her, stepping back a few paces until he is chest-deep in water. She follows, drifting ahead, and he follows until his feet no longer touch the ground. She settles under his arms again, hugging him and supporting him, simultaneously. "I am to become a Siren again tonight," he goes on, thinking out loud, "that was our original promise. Three days ashore for a Selkie's sealskin."

"You've fulfilled your part of the trade," Iris points out.

"But she hasn't fulfilled hers," Barry finishes. "Giving her the sealskin didn't kill the Siren in me. It only gave me another day with you."

Iris curls up close to him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm only human until dusk," he says. "Then I return to the sea, or I die. _If_ I die, then …" He swallows. "Then the last person I ensnared becomes the next Siren." He squeezes her gently. "I'm sorry."

"Mm." She kisses the underside of his jaw once, lightly. "Don't be. I would do it again."

He cannot respond immediately, overcome. "I won't die," he promises, holding her, feet kicking slowly, treading water. "And in a few hours, I'll be …" He frowns. "I _should_ be a Siren again," he says, but doubt is creeping back in.

"Barry?" she prompts when he holds his silence a little too long.

"I should be a Siren _now_ ," he says, suddenly emphatic, "but the song – it's out of my reach. And my voice, it doesn't – it has no effect on the others. It's as if … it's as if I'm not a Siren anymore. As though I've – I've _died_ , and you've succeeded me. But that's not what our bargain was," he adds fiercely. "This can be fixed. I'm sure of it."

Cradling her in his arms, he insists, "All we have to do is beat a goddess at her own game." With a confidence he doesn't feel, he says lightly, "Easy."

Iris hums a little. "And if it doesn't work?"

Barry frowns. "What do you mean?"

"What if you're human forever?" she says, looking right at him. " _Or_ … what if you become a Siren again, and I stay the same?" With bright eyes, she muses, "We could be together like this. Forever. You said Sirens live hundreds of years."

"Thousands," Barry says faintly, "if they're careful. Iris, we can't – it's not a _life_ , it's a sentence," he explains. "It's a terrible curse. No creature alive wishes to be a Siren. It is why we are so deeply … disliked." _Despised_ , a vicious little voice reminds. "No creature wants to become a monster."

"You aren't a monster."

Barry's heart hurts. "I'm … I _made_ you into this," he reminds her. "What else would that make me, but a monster?"

"Human," she says simply.

If the irony strikes her, she gives no sign of it.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes** : Hey, y'all! This here is an interlude, a departure from the regular narrative. I'm not one to write an "interlude" chapter, but the information contained in this chapter is too important to cut and too removed from the narrative to stitch directly into the story, i.e. it wouldn't transition well into a "regular" scene. I hope you can bear with me for one chapter and stay tuned for our regularly programmed narrative coming up next!

Things have been out of sorts IRL these past few days, but I'll try to write the next chapter ASAP. For now: enjoy. And thank you, guest commenters and signed reviewers alike! Your feedback is always appreciated.

* * *

Why do Sirens exist?

It is a lonely, earnest, honest question, posited not merely once in the finite lifespan of Everything but many times over.

Sirens are strange. They evade the deadly scythe of time, failing to age after they have reached their youthful prime. They must be killed: left alone, they will not die. It is a curious phenomenon to the mortal world, that one can be left alone for centuries and fail to succumb to the silent, chaotic death of a body not meant to last eons.

Make no mistake: they do change.

Within a century of assuming the role, most of their prior lives have been swept clean from memory, leaving only the song in their soul and the ghostly presence of other Sirens to keep them awake in the restless night. At the rate of mineral deposition, their claws extend to long, curling, wicked silver instruments capable of carving stone.

It's often thought by young Sirens that their kind leaves nothing behind, vanishing without a trace into celestial darkness, but if one looks closely, one may find the marks of other Sirens. They sculpt rocks in a language like no other, adding to a beautiful, soaring conversation that has carried on for hundreds of thousands of years. Their tongue has never been taught, but it has not changed since the Earth was born and the first Siren descended into the sea.

It is a simple language, a love song to the moon and stars above, the sea and earth below: rather than waiting for the stones to be crushed into new forms by the great magmatic processes below, they sculpt them, tirelessly, until their claws are diamond tough, and tougher still, and a new stone has emerged from the remainder of its predecessor.

These stones line the walls of remnant Siren caves across the seas. Young Sirens often collect untampered red and green and occasionally blue stones that wash ashore. Sirens who attain a greater age incorporate more exotic finds into their caves, fading out the simpler stock. Eventually, over the course of nearly a thousand years, they create the first new stones. Within ten thousand years, having worked for eons to create them, they adorn every inch of their cave in these magnificent stones.

Still they work, using those shark-killing claws to transform their softer works into even harder stones until they are almost mythical in proportion. The colors they produce rival any above or below the sea; the patterns remain simple, but spotted stones become striped stones, and straight stripes become wavy stripes, and all manner of transformations takes place. Like a very long sunset, the cave morphs from one sequence to the next, and still the Siren alters its foundation.

Over the lifetime of a single long-lived Siren, a cave may metamorphose five times, each transformation taking exponentially more time than the last. It takes a hundred years to create the first generation with only the hints of a Siren's touch; it will take a thousand years for the first Siren-sculpted stones to fill the space, the second generation; ten thousand more for the third generation; a hundred thousand for the fourth; and a million years for the sixth stage to appear.

A million years to create one finite space that would never have happened without a Siren's presence: that is a Siren's language, its art, its love. The full five-stage metamorphosis needs to happen just twice to surpass every trace of humanity that has ever existed. Two highly-evolved Siren caves spans the cosmic breadth of human existence.

There are almost ten thousand Siren caves scattered across the Earth.

Most of these caves are one-generational, chosen as a refuge before their occupant was snuffed out by the violent seas or the violent creatures within and without. About five hundred are second-generational, evidence of Sirens who attained a great age before passing along the mantle. Fewer than fifty are third-generational, evidence of tectonic forces that thrived in their loneliness for hundreds of thousands of years. On two hands, one may count the number of fourth-generational caves there are, staggering monuments to a time before humans ever knew life.

Deep in the ocean, far from even the most curious eyes, four caves linger in the uppermost stage, waiting for a new host, a new occupant, to attempt the impossible: a sixth evolution. These four caves – spanning more than four million years of time – linger in the depths as testaments to the extraordinary lives of the Sirens Who Came Before, four individuals of pre-Merfolk but post-Selkie societies, four individuals who did not merely outlive individuals but entire species. They were created before humanity took its first gasping breaths, in the twilight between older and newer worlds, representations of a species capable of existing interminably.

Still, these caves represent but a tiny fraction of the Siren lineage. Sirens share spaces as readily as any other creature eager to occupy a vacated place; thus, each cave may belong to dozens of Sirens over time. Some Sirens live in a transient state, constantly moving from cave to cave, never investing the time needed to transform the stones. Some simply do not dwell in caves at all, facing the world without reprieve. Ultimately, the ten thousand remnants are but a partial record of the Sirens.

After two hundred million years – two hundred million!; a time so vast it defies comparison – the ocean floor renews itself completely. Every trace of its prior residents has been replaced with fresh, hot, unmarked rocks. Most of the old, cold rock is transferred to that hidden, otherworldly inferno beneath the seas, but some of it is trapped between the two places and thrust upward onto land. There, it may rise to mountainous heights. There, even the shorelanders and other creatures of the land may someday find the Siren's stones. There, the world below the stars can behold the work of a being that can live for ten thousand centuries.

The Siren's song has no words, but it has a familiar worldly cadence, a rhythmic tune like the tides. The Sirens themselves are fixtures upon the earth as ephemeral and enduring as the stars above, lasting and impermanent, quietly intangible but still tantalizingly in reach. There is a realness to them that evades the casual watcher, the creature who catches a glimpse of water rippling and wonders if there is not a Siren beyond it; only the truly daring may ever know a Siren up close. But Sirens are as inexorable as gravity.

They are fallen stars. They are inescapable forces of nature bred to burn and break any creature who dares to come too close to them. They must be regarded from a great distance, a distance that dulls the blinding power of the starlight, until it is possible to forget that those nearly nonexistent points of light represent actual beings. It is not possible to catch even a whisper of a Siren's song safely. No creature was ever born that could hold molten stardust in their paws.

In many ways, they are not real: they are not born and they do not die on their own. They need no food; they seek no breath. They belong to no communities and leave behind no blood descendants, comprised only of other souls ensnared in the gravity well, pulled into a singularity that stretches back from the very cusp of the present to that primordial world before, when Sirens were not animals at all, but stars, mysterious, powerful beings capable of rending apart any that ventured too close to them.

It is said that Sirens emerged like asteroids, one moment nearly a thousand, thousand, thousand years ago, when a star-like being crashed into the ocean. Unlike its kin, it did not die. It drifted aimlessly for eons, infusing every creature on Earth with its stardust, so that one day all descendants would be tied to it, compelled to it. In this way, the Siren transformed from a single celestial being into a creature so diffuse it might be said every living being is a Siren.

But there was a beating heart of this great disparate beast. A single stone, a remnant of that fallen star, awaited a curious, foolish, life-full animal to uptake it. It rested in stillness and silence for many of those hundreds of millions of years, patient, eternal, until at last it opened its eyes, and beheld its new form with wonder.

From being to being, tragedy to tragedy, it created a family for itself, a family under the stars nearly as compelling as the celestial kingdom above. It stayed alive with the song burning in its heart, a song no mortal was ever meant to hear, a song that belonged to that other-after-world. Tirelessly, it moved on from one being to another, endlessly cycling, endlessly striving for the stars – endlessly refusing to die, refusing to embrace its own extinction even as whole orders rose and fell before it.

It is an endless cycle – sculpting stones in the memory of that fallen star, taking lives to free souls to join that glorious world above the stars, crying out in agony and ecstasy to remember its own self amid everything that changes, changing interminably while the Siren – Siren, _singular_ – never changes.

And so the question prevails: _why_ do Sirens exist?

Some contend that Sirens are Death incarnate, meant to keep beasts humble in their finite lifespans. It's a fair assumption. Sirens' lives extend well beyond those of any around them. Even after they pass on the mantle, they leave behind stones for others to find, prevailing after their own supposed death. They haunt the seas, shadows in the deep with sharp teeth and wicked claws, exiled from the living.

Others view Sirens as Deities, divorced from the rules of the living. They play dice with the universe, twisting the rules, interfering with the natural order. They are ruthless in the pursuit of their own goals, drowning those they cannot bear to part with as often as those they despise entirely. Their realm is unconfined, their power uncontested. Still they respect the other dignitaries, a predatorial courtesy, and cannot act beyond their own powers.

Neither interpretation is wrong, but both are incomplete. Sirens are Death, but they are also the creature that will not die, the fallen star that will not burn out. Sirens are Deities, but they belong to no heavenly or hellish commune and inhabit no specific kingdom in time. They are many things, but they are a monster above all else, a cosmic interloper that will not surrender the Earth.

Ultimately, there is only one answer, one incomprehensible solution to the simple question.

Sirens exist because they _can_.


	23. Chapter 23

A wave slashes across Barry's blue-tinged face.

Flustered, he rights himself on the deck of the ship, exhausted and cold, cold with exhaustion. Staring down the side of the ship, he leans over the railing, yearning for the shadow in the water. His longing is so intense that it is all he can do to grip the wood and not launch himself over the edge. Waiting, endlessly, it seems, he tightens his grip until the wood digs into his nails, and then she reappears, surfacing alongside the ship and looking up at him. He doesn't relax, but he meets her gaze and nods once. She disappears again. It's safer below.

He's glad that his hands are frozen to the deck, or he would throw himself into the water to escape the vicious cold. It would be so much kinder to descend into that pleasant, promising darkness that lured him in so long ago. Lifetimes ago. He's only been a Siren for twenty years – such an inconsequential period that no stories would ever be written about him; even the wind would quickly forget his song, his timbre – but it feels like he has died and been reborn. He has changed, profoundly, irreversibly.

No matter how human his flesh is, he will always be a little wild. Underneath the furskins and formalities, he will always be a Siren. It is part of him, seared into his soul, and when he cast his gaze at the waters he is not only looking for her but for silent confirmation. _Have you abandoned me?_ he wants to ask the waves. _Have you forgotten me?_ he aches to ask the ocean that was once his only friend.

Hunching deeper into his furskins, he blows out a slow breath, longing for water in his lungs and a heavy tail paddling behind him. He would retreat to that lovely little cave far below and hunker down for a time, letting day and night pass without resurfacing. It was peaceful, being surrounded by soft blue light, safely tucked away from winter's wrath.

He thinks about his barren blue-less cave and feels a pang deep in his chest. It would be so disappointing should anyone find it, should _Iris_ find it. _You gave up everything for this_ , an insidious little voice reminds him. _Why are you so bitter about getting everything you ever wanted?_

 _Because this isn't what I wanted_.

Unaware of his thoughts, Iris surfaces again. Barry doesn't lift his head, regarding her with his mouth buried in his sleeves, hiding half his face. She can't see his expression, but his eyes must be dimly reassuring, for she disappears again.

 _Don't trust me_ , he thinks, letting his eyelids slide shut, drowsing. _My kind cannot be trusted._

 _What kind are you?_ challenges the grand Nothingness out-there.

To that, he has no answer. _Neither human nor beast,_ he settles on. _Neither Siren nor shorelander. Neither._

 _Both._

He wonders where Iris lies on the spectrum, if he hasn't doomed her to something even worse than death, and feels fire burning low in his chest.

 _Live to fix this_ , he orders his cold, tired body. _Live to give back what was never yours._

The journey to the southern shores of Annapurna is exhaustive, and long, and finite.

Onward, they plunge, recklessly, fearlessly, determinedly, to find the Sea Witch, and reverse the curse.

. o .

At last, the _White Hare_ limps ashore.

Rob holds the wheel steady while Cisco and Hartley dock the ship. Barry rouses, helping tie off the ropes. The process is not familiar to him, but he cooperates, because it keeps his mind off bigger, scarier things. Hoofbeats draw his attention to the sloping shore beyond the deck, and he spots a small entourage on horseback approaching them, grim-faced.

"They look unhappy," Cisco observes, frowning and tying off the last rope.

The entourage canters to a halt near them. Barry spots Monteleone, Rothstein, and Scudder, as well as the Duke, Eddie. "Well," Eddie greets grimly, looking at them from the end of the dock. In light grey garb, he seems a creature of the north, meant to last. His horse stamps its foot once. "I thought it might come to this. What say you to defend yourselves?" He looks at them unmaliciously, but none of the sailors speak.

"You were right to return," Eddie adds, prompting them. "No one would survive long at sea in this weather, and death is not the sentence which should befall you all."

Bewildered, Rob asks slowly, "What crime have we committed?"

In response, Eddie reaches for and unravels a scroll at his belt. "By order of His Majesty, King Joseph," he reads aloud, his voice as steady as the dark wind, "Ruler of Annapurna and Leader of the North, the fugitive Henry Garrick shall be brought to the royal court to face crimes of treason," he recites. "Any who collude with his escape shall be duly prosecuted."

Cisco guffaws. "Treason?" he repeats, hopping off the rocking ship onto the deck. "What are you talking about?"

"The fire at the West castle," Eddie says, folding up the scroll and belting it. "The unprovoked attacks against Sir Zolomon. And the numerous and unforgivable affronts to the King's daughter, Iris, Princess of Annapurna."

"Numerous and unforgivable?" Cisco repeats in disbelief, stalking towards him. Scudder halts him in place with a hand on his shoulder.

"We are here to bring Garrick before the King," Eddie says shortly. "And you as well, for assisting him in his escape. You may walk freely, unless you choose to make this difficult. Per the King's orders, Garrick shall be bound and gagged."

Rothstein flashes a short knife on his belt. "Should you trouble us," he says, closing in on Barry, all methods of escape but the sea cut off to him, "we shall cut off any limbs determined obstructive, to ensure that the King's orders are fulfilled."

"This is _insanity_ ," Cisco barks, struggling in Scudder's hold. "Let me _go_."

"Stand down, sailor," Eddie suggests. "Your crimes are modest, but that can change."

Barry feels more than hears Iris surface near the waterline of the boat, little claws digging into the wood. _Don't be seen_ , he urges.

Complying with the Duke's orders, _start no trouble_ , he leverages himself out of the ship and onto the dock.

He doesn't even complete the movement: Rothstein seizes a handful of his furskin and drags him forward, putting him on his knees. With brisk efficiency, he complies with the Duke's orders, hauling Barry to his feet by his bound hands a few seconds later. Unresisting, Barry follows him, head lowered, mute and compliant. _Don't be seen_ , he urges Iris, sensing her gaze upon his back. His cheeks burn with humiliation, but she can't see them, and he consoles himself with that thought.

 _Don't look at me_.

It was somehow better and worse to be treated as such when he was seventeen and sour, daring the Merfolk to capture him as he ventured too close to their turf, easily distinguished by his broad Man-a-tee tail. When they dragged him through their city, he hissed and seethed in their bonds just to make them nervous, to make them tighten their grip and dig their poison-tipped spears into his sides. He dug his black-tipped claws into them and somehow sawed through the gag. His freedom didn't last long: the gesture prompted such panic that a crushing blow landed on the back of his head. He could no sooner resist unconsciousness than sprout wings and fly.

When he awoke, he was far from the Merfolk. Searing pain hit him; he could barely leverage himself upright to see the problem. They'd staked his tail to the seafloor. The message was clear: he would have to pry himself free, removing all seven spikes, if he wanted to see the surface again. No one was going to rescue a Siren.

The wounds healed, and even the extraordinary pain from wrenching free was temporary, but the scars never faded. He didn't miss how they'd branded him with their own insignia, seven seas, seven star-shaped scars barely visible along the arch of his tail.

He didn't bother the Merfolk after that.

Idly, morbidly, he wonders what cruelties the humans are capable of. He's oddly grateful for his clumsy, stiff, hurting human legs. At last they can't touch his tail.

His tail was wrong – it wasn't beautiful like a Merfolk's or splendid like a Selkie's – but it was his own, and the ocean embraced him with it in a way that it could never with his two human legs. When his parents died, he was stranded. When the Siren Who Came Before Him died, he was alone.

All he had was the legacy, and that wrong, scarred tail was part of it. He would be damned if he let anyone else hurt him as a Siren. Let them break the man all they pleased. As a Siren, he could command the entire world. There was no creature above his sway.

Confidence and the burn of insubordination prompt him to lift his head, tilting his chin up a little, meeting Eddie's gaze. He feels Rothstein's grip tighten on his wrist, punishingly tight, but he doesn't respond to it, doesn't groan or twist away. No: he keeps his gaze on Eddie, and then he deliberately drops to his knees. It's not a gesture of adoration; on the contrary, it's a protest. He sits heavily on his own heels, heart pounding, breathing shallowly.

 _I am above this,_ he thinks fiercely. Rothstein jabs his shoulder with that short little knife, and he feels the pain but distantly, refusing to be moved by it. _I will not be treated like this._

"Up," Rothstein barks, trying to drag him to his feet. Barry refuses, anchored to the ground. Monteleone joins Rothstein, grabs a hank of Barry's furskin, and attempts to haul him upward. When that fails, he fists Barry's hair, yanking hard, and Barry waits until he gives up, until Rothstein has satisfied himself with another sharp jab, before rising to his feet, bloodied but under his own power.

Behind the gag, he cannot speak. He cannot even attempt to communicate, hands bound behind his back, animosity thick in the air. Still, he makes his message heard when he takes a deliberate step forward, dragging Rothstein and Monteleone with him.

 _I am not someone you want to anger,_ he tells Eddie without speaking, stepping towards him, hauling his guides after him. They plant their feet, resisting, and he halts mere inches from Eddie's steed. Eddie doesn't move, doesn't flinch back in fear, holding his gaze. Barry wonders how he would react if he could see Iris by the ship – somewhere nearby, he knows – and feels a surge of fierce protectiveness drive him forward another step.

Finally, Rothstein and Monteleone haul him back. His momentum falters, and he succumbs to their dual effort. He doesn't walk for them. Instead, he goes limp, forcing them to carry his weight or leave him. It's easier than taking a single step farther away from Iris, from the ocean. Every inch forward is painful, and he feels a growl build low in his chest, rising until he's snarling loudly behind the gag, a deep, seething noise that keeps the horses away from him.

Cisco, Rob, and Hartley follow under their own power – Rob and Hartley unaided, Cisco with Scudder's hand on his shoulder – but Barry requires the dual and utmost efforts of Rothstein and Monteleone to move forward. It gives him a wicked sort of satisfaction, and he sees in his mind's eyes the hundreds of other Merfolk keeping their distance and jeering him on, observing and reeling, awed and horrified by the Siren in their midst.

 _If you wanted to silence me_ , he wants to tell them all, _you should have killed me._

Given the choice to live, he resolves to make it _count_.

. o .

It's hard to watch them drag Barry away.

Iris almost can't look, hovering low in the waterline. She feels a fierce impulse to call out, to subdue all of them, to halt the painful procession before it carries on further, but she can almost hear Barry telling her not to intercede.

 _A Siren's voice is irresistible_.

No matter how great her desire is to finally exercise that royal authority, she cannot do so in her present form without far graver consequences. She watches silently instead. She sees Barry's back tense before he kneels, slow and sure, and even Rothstein's heavy-handed attempts cannot right him. The simple gesture heartens her in a way that humble compliance could not.

 _I'm still fighting_.

She hears a deep exhale nearby and turns to see a leopard seal head briefly surface, big black eyes regarding her before the seal ducks below. Following it, she aches to ask him to help, to be the friend he's always been to her family, but she keeps her silence. She can't ask. She can only hope he doesn't run.

In mere moments, Oliver Queen is standing ashore and smoothing down a plain set of furskins, unobtrusive but heavy, and tapping his fist to his chest three times in her direction. She doesn't know what it means – fears that it is _farewell_ – but when she mimics the gesture, Oliver nods and turns away, wandering up the hill after the entourage at a generous distance. When he disappears with them, Iris digs her claws into the ship, suddenly, powerfully alone.

Stranded in the sea, the Siren scans the shoreline for any signs of life. Finding none, she ducks below the waves, and lies in wait.


	24. Chapter 24

_Refresher:_

Welcome back to **Annapurna** , a fictitious island located near the Arctic.

This land hosts a variety of sea-loving people, including shipmates **Rob Singh** , **Cisco Ramon** , and **Hartley Rathaway**. Annapurna also has a noble class, including: **the Wests** , Joseph, Francine, Iris, and Wally; **the Raymonds** , Ronnie and Caitlin; **Eddie Thawne, Duke of Chomolungma** , and his companion Jesse Quick; and **the Zolomons** , Hunter and Lilah (Hunter's mother). The West family itself also employs guards **Al Rothstein** ("Atom Smasher"), **Sam Scudder** ("Mirror Master"), and **Joseph Monteleone** ("Tar Pit"), among others.

Alongside the human cast, non-human characters abound, like **Selkie Oliver Queen** , masquerading as Ronnie Raymond's cousin; **Sea Witch Lisa Snart** , who orchestrates Barry's journey to land; and Lisa's brother, the God of Chaos **Leonard Snart** , leader of **The Rogues**. The Rogues are: Leonard Snart, **Mick Rory** , Hartley Rathaway, **Rosalind Dillon** ("Top"), Sam Scudder, and **Shawna Baez** ("Peek-a-Boo").

* * *

Below is a recap of _The Hope of Knowing_ thus far.

 **Broad summary ("tl;dr")** : Barry Allen, sole Siren of the Seven Seas, becomes enamored with the "shorelander" Iris West, Princess of Annapurna, and follows a path similar to that undertaken by Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid to find happiness with her.

 **Detailed summary** : Almost twenty years ago in this noble land of Annapurna, a young orphaned boy named Barry Allen ventured alone to the shoreline, where he encountered a mysterious figure who led him away to the watery deep. His captor, the former **Selkie turned Siren Eobard Thawne** , died shortly after ensnaring Barry, handing over the mantle of sole Siren to him. Eobard never introduced himself to Barry by name, insisting on being known only as "The Siren Who Came Before [You]."

A strange species without means or motive to reproduce, **Sirens** typically select a successor from any of the known humanoid species: humans, Selkies, or **Merfolk**. Traditionally, they prey on children, but any member of any species will succumb to their **irresistible voice**. Sirens are Grim Reaper-like characters capable of peacefully drowning any air-breathing creature or starving any sea-dwelling animal. Endowed with **short, sharp black claws** , a **grey-blue, manatee-like rudder of a tail** , and **distinctly pointed incisors** , Sirens rely on their voices more than their physical attributes to persuade others. They are **not strong combatants** , especially against fearsome adversaries of the Deep like **the Dignitaries, Sharks and Whales**. They also fall short of fair matches for Selkies and Merfolk, who are respectively better predators and pack hunters.

Distinguishing Sirens from Selkies and Merfolk is easy: their tails give them away. While Sirens alone possess the manatee-like tail, Merfolk are known for **colorful, betta-like tails** , while Selkies possess **sealskins** that transform them into a single species of seal. Given their reputation for stealing children from parents and killing any creature they interact with, Sirens are despised by nearly everything under the Sea. Among humans, their existence remains on the cusp of lore, given how reclusive these sea-dwelling humanoids tend to be.

Barry is an exception to the rule, endlessly curious about the land he once called home, and quickly becomes enchanted by the sea-loving Iris. He offers her small blue pebbles as a gesture of kindness; unbeknownst to him, these pebbles are a strong part of Siren history (read the full story behind pebbles in Chapter 22, "Interlude"). When a Sea Witch shows up and offers him the chance to walk on land, he surrenders his pebbles to her in exchange for a day on land. Though his adventures are tempered with mishaps, his love for land and for Iris and her people abounds. As a former human who has always sought the company of another species, Barry finds the hospitality of Annapurna irresistible.

Unfortunately, his bargains take their toll, and when he trades three days ashore for a Selkie sealskin, he puts himself in a position where compliance clashes with his morality. Hunter Zolomon, an active and malevolent agent in this story, nearly removes the choice from Barry's hands by dealing him a mortal blow while Barry is alone with Iris at the shore, but the Sea Witch's timely intervention and double-edged offer to trade a "life for a life" spares him. Barry, unaware of the dangerous bargain, proceeds to find the former Selkie Eobard's abandoned sealskin on shore near the Queen's "residence," and brings it to the Sea Witch promptly. To his horror, he finds that he does not transform into a Siren as he expects but remains human.

Meanwhile, Iris - the last person Barry unintentionally enchanted (second act of the story) - uptakes the role as the Universe recognizes Barry's permanent transition to humanity as his Siren death and selects its successor automatically. Furious at the outcome of the exchange, Barry and company hasten back to the main shore to find the Sea Witch, now in possession of a Selkie sealskin and able to cavort on land.

Before they even step off the boat, Eddie and a small entourage (guards Scudder, Monteleone, and Rothstein) arrive to arrest "Henry Garrick," Barry's human alias, for crimes against the kingdom. A castle fire set by Zolomon and several near fatal encounters with Iris are blamed solely on Barry, and the King demands his presence to mete out the appropriate crime for heavy treason. Barry goes, not complacently but determinedly, knowing that his only hope to set the situation aright is to somehow turn the tide of the enchanted agreement with the Sea Witch and ensure that Iris does not remain the Siren forever.

And now, after a lengthy absence, we resume.

* * *

The small entourage reaches the castle in due time, plowing through knee-deep snow.

Barry makes no remark on the biting cold, reluctantly assisting his captors with his transfer by planting his feet on the cobbled streets and walking stiffly between them. The Duke rides on horseback in front of them, making way; Scudder and Cisco trail behind them. Under their own power, Rob and Hartley walk alongside Barry and his two guards, bewilderment plain in their silence. Monteleone and Rothstein make no conversation.

The cold is oppressive, but there is a heaviness to their march that cannot be attributed to the weather. _This is not a walk you will return from_ , Barry senses, and feels anger more than fear at the thought. _I must make it count_.

The heat of the castle is such that even Rothstein's gruff demeanor settles out to a more cordial appearance as he and his partner stand erect before the King, each holding one of Barry's arms to keep him at attention. King Joseph walks towards them at a stately pace from the far side of the cavernous hall, and as one the guards and Duke bow. Hartley, Cisco, and Rob follow after a beat.

Barry doesn't move, locking eyes with the woman walking in the shadows in her father's tread, astonished. Dressed in royal blues, Iris' lips twitch in a faint smile, a familiarly warm gesture that makes his heart ache and the world around them disappear. It matters not what the King deems his fate to be, he thinks, looking at the King's daughter with wondering eyes. If she is here, then all is well.

Then a small, furry white head appears from a pocket of her lapel, bearing a wicked little smile that sends spikes of unease down Barry's spine. He knows that smile, and he senses the shift in perception when one of Iris' hands rises to gently press the head back into its hiding place. The weasel obliges without a sound. Her gaze meets his, and he sees the truth, blazingly apparent, as her eyes flash gold for just a moment.

It is too brief for any of the bowed souls to notice, and with the King's back to her, the woman's deception goes unseen by all but the former Siren in their midst.

 _Witch_ , Barry realizes.

Fury burns inside him as she steps up alongside the man who believes she is his daughter and tucks an arm around his, huddling close, feigning endearment. The gesture seems to summon a wave of protectiveness from the King, who addresses the group authoritatively, "Rise. And be gone with you." He waves a hand to indicate Cisco, Hartley, and Rob, standing together nearby. "I have no qualm with you, now that my quarry has been brought to me."

Warily, Hartley recedes towards the doors through which they came. Rob asks slowly, "What will become of Garrick?" Barry sees the Sea Witch's lips twitch in an even brighter, more fiendish smile – amused at the nickname, no doubt. _They have no idea what you_ really _are,_ her bright eyes seem to say.

"Leave," the King says shortly, and Rob retreats with a shallow nod. The three men edge towards the door slowly, not eager to return to the cold but palpably relieved to have escaped greater harm.

At last, alone, Cisco pauses in the threshold, palm on the edge. "Annapurna is a just place," he says. "You are a just king." Then he disappears into the cold with the others, and the doors clang shut behind him. The wind whistles softly between the gaps, the only sound for a thousand miles, it seems.

It does not even begin to match the coldness in King Joseph's eyes as he draws a sword and looks at Barry.

"I am a just king," he echoes. "I have a kingdom to protect."

Carefully, Monteleone and Rothstein release Barry's arms and remove themselves from striking distance, allowing the King a clean strike. Barry does not move, holding the Sea Witch's gaze, refusing to be daunted by her wicked indifference.

"I have allowed you to live among us, to walk this land," the King goes on, and the Sea Witch releases his arm so he might take a single step forward, standing mere feet in front of Barry. "I have endangered every person who lives on these shores, knowingly." He closes the distance steadily. Barry does not flinch, but his breath shallows instinctively, bracing for impact.

"Perhaps, Siren, you do not know how we humans revere the heroes who kill monsters," the King says, and the blade is extended before him so the tip hovers closer to Barry than the blazing eyes of its wielder. He does not flinch, but he allows his gaze to drift idly, almost insolently to the King's. "It is a just thing to kill the dragon that tries to burn down the castle and the villagers with it," the King says in a low, growling tone. "I respond to you now only in kind for your actions."

He lofts the sword suddenly, and it draws a tiny flinch from the Siren, but the blade never finds its target.

Mid-swing, it shatters like glass, and the King staggers in shock as the pieces rain down around him. Even Barry cannot escape the sudden shock, reeling back a half-step instinctively. The guards, thrown momentarily, rush forward, speaking rapidly. "What sort of _sorcery_ —" Rothstein demands in a low rasp.

"No sorcery," the Sea Witch says calmly, stepping forward, ignoring the King's shock as she glides towards them. "Merely an old trick. You should examine your blades more closely before you use them. The cold can do terrible things to even the strongest metals."

"Daughter," the King begins, disbelieving, as he turns to her, "what—"

He never finishes his sentence – a blade sprouts from his back, eliciting a gargled sound of shock before the metal _shinks_ as it is retrieved. "You humans talk too much," she says coolly, stepping back as the King reaches almost reflexively for her, collapsing to his knees. The guards converge, but she cuts down Rothstein and Monteleone with ruthless ease. Mortally wounded, they fall near their King, bleeding out. Scudder, silent, keeps his distance.

Eddie, drawing his own blade, barks, "Drop your sword and step _away_ from him, or I shall make you."

The Sea Witch ignores him completely, stalking towards Barry and lifting the bloodied short sword to cut through the gag. He turns his head aside with the movement, not eager to be bloodied by it from a careless slice, and slowly looks back at her. His heart pounds; the sound is loud in his ears. "I have waited almost ten thousand years for this opportunity," she says, in a tone that reveals unequivocally her divine nature – no mere mortal can invoke such power. "Ten thousand years of biding my time and befriending fools like you who never knew when to stop reaching for the stars. They all died," she adds. "Every Siren Who Came Before You is dead, now. They were useless. Your whole species is useless." A warm smile curls her lips; it makes Barry feel sick to his stomach. "Even the gods do not know why Sirens exist. We only know that our attempts to eradicate them have failed, repeatedly."

She jerks the blade sharply in Eddie's direction, halting him as he steps towards the King. "Interfere and the King's death will be swift," she says ruthlessly. "Stand your ground and I will make it swifter."

Obediently, reluctantly, Eddie steps back. The Sea Witch smiles at him. The King rasps for breath at their feet. "Very good," she purrs, still holding her bloodied sword aloft. "This can be a very peaceful transition, or it can be a very bloody one, and I'm not set on either outcome. If you play nice, I'll even let your king live."

"This is madness," Eddie says softly, and Barry can hear the paleness in his tone.

"This is the law of the land," the Sea Witch replies simply. "One leader falls, and another steps forward. Though your dear king will survive this, he will not be fit for rule in such condition." She lowers and sheaths her blade casually. Eddie does not step forward, even though Barry can almost feel him straining to lunge to the King's side. As it stands, it takes every fiber of his own will power not to crouch beside the grievously wounded man at their feet.

"You wish to rule?" Eddie says softly, not daring to speak louder, straining to keep the situation as calm as possible. "Is that what drives this mutiny?"

"How can it be mutiny when it is my destiny?" the Sea Witch challenges. "His death is an inevitable outcome, as is my ascendancy. I cannot step forward as ruler of this land until he steps aside."

"You love your father," Eddie says in a low voice. "How could you—"

"You humans talk too much," a familiar voice drawls, preceding a sharp _thud_. Reflexively, Barry turns around and sees Snart holding the unconscious Duke under both arms. His smile is unapologetically wicked. "Hello, Barry Allen. You're the boy who disappeared. Sorry to say Mom and Pop won't be here to welcome your return to civilization."

"Dispose of him," the Sea Witch interrupts ruthlessly, indicating Eddie with her short sword. Barry didn't even hear her redraw it; it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand as he slants his gaze towards her, uneasy about letting her out of his sight.

"I'm no errand boy, Sister," Snart replies, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Then have one of your _friends_ do it," the Sea Witch growls. "Scudder here would be more than willing; wouldn't you, Sam?" she adds, almost sweetly, fixing the unmoving guard with a stony glare. "You've already betrayed your king once." She nods at the unmoving Monteleone and Rothstein at her feet. "A second time will be forgiven as readily." Her smile is unforgiving.

Without further discussion, Snart dumps the unconscious Eddie at Scudder's feet. "Take care of him," he orders. "Mick'll make sure you don't get cold feet at the finish," he adds with chilling finality.

Barry doesn't see Mick, but he knows the other man is near; Snart wouldn't do a job without his righthand man. Head still spinning, he watches in stunned silence as Scudder hoists Eddie over his shoulders without looking at him. Snart graciously opens the door for him, and the guard and his quarry vanish into the descending blizzard.

Drawing in a deep, refreshed breath – almost in cruel contrast to the gasping King on the floor – the Sea Witch says serenely, "That's much better."

"Mick's been craving a good kill for a while," Snart admits, making sure the grand entrance is locked tightly before sauntering over to them. "He'll have fun with Scudder."

"Quiet fun," the Sea Witch says with narrowed eyes. "I wish for no disruptions to this transition. As it stands," she eyes Barry as though seeing him for the first time, eyes blazing golden – and dark, cavernous, like the den of an angry god, "I brought you here for one purpose. Can you see what it is?"

Barry looks at the brother-sister duo and holds his silence for a long beat. At last, he says in a low voice, "This was always about you, wasn't it?"

The Sea Witch laughs, and there is nothing joyful about the sound.

"Oh, you child, how could you think anything else? Why would _I_ help _you_? What could I possibly gain from that? Friendship?"

She says it with such venom that Barry feels his cheeks heat up with shame, rebuked. _No,_ he tells himself fiercely, meeting her gaze and willing the embarrassment to pass, because it doesn't matter what he thought then – what he hoped for when he first met the helpful stranger in the water.

 _Her actions were never selfless_.

"You're – not – Iris," the King rasps, and there is devastation and determination in his voice. He strains unsuccessfully to sit upright, having fallen to his side. He cannot manage more than a partial crouch.

"Of course I am," the Sea Witch says with mocking sincerity. "Do I not look like her?"

"You're – _not_ – my daughter," the King grunts, getting to his knees.

A powerful kick from the Sea Witch delivers him flat on the floor. Barry steps forward involuntarily and finds the short sword against his belly. "Ah, ah," the Sea Witch chides. "You've played your part well so far, Siren. Don't break it now."

At last, the cloud of dazed horror clears enough to permit a new emotion: rage. Barry's lip curls in a snarl; clawless hands clench into fists at his sides. Shaking minutely, he steps forward, deliberately pressing against the sword. A distant part of his mind is surprised when the Sea Witch lowers it, allowing him to get within easy striking distance.

"I will not be part of this," he growls.

The Sea Witch rolls her eyes, the sole expression of annoyance granted outwardly. "You're the reason this is happening. If it weren't for your naivete, I would still be wiling away my time in the ocean searching for another way to get on land."

Barry doesn't blink, holding her gaze, knowing that if he wavers even for a second she will find him disposable. Curiosity edges forward. Softly, warily, he asks, "Why do you want to be on land?"

"Why do _you_?" she retorts, and then she steps around him with airy grace, alighting beside Snart. The family resemblance is unmistakable, even though the energies they radiate – powerful and cruel, dark red and ocean blue – vary tremendously. _These are two beings you should not cross_ , a small rational voice tells Barry.

 _Too late_.

"The seas are vast, but there are some things you cannot find in them, no matter how far you go. My heart belongs to my family. And my father, may he rot eternal, sought to part my dear brother and I forever, forcing him to abide the land and myself the sea in the hour before his departing. I did always love the sea," she adds wistfully. Her gaze hardens a moment later, nostalgia gone. "I merely had no desire to spend my life eternal in it. But I didn't want to become _human_ ," she adds disdainfully, examining the injured King with dispassionate eyes. "No; I merely wanted the option to return to land whenever I chose. Now I can."

"And soon I will enjoy the same privilege," Snart adds with obvious enjoyment. Barry frowns, edging closer to the prone King. When neither sibling stops him, he dares to crouch beside the man, keeping his gaze on the pair. "Your shadow should've kept to himself. I'd almost feel sorry taking a father from his child if I didn't know what sort of beasts fathers could be." Glancing with disgust at the King, he adds derisively, "How are you so blind to your own people?"

Breathing raggedly, the King does not respond. Barry gingerly rests a hand on his shoulder; it is breathtakingly cold. Slowly, without thinking, he sheds his own furskin and drapes it over the man's chest. A glassy but fierce stare alights upon him. A single word forms on the King's lips: _Iris_.

Taking the King's wrist in hand carefully, Barry squeezes it. He doesn't dare speak, but he hopes to convey firm assurance with the simple gesture.

Rising slowly, he faces the siblings head-on – surrounded by the fallen guard and the eerie silence of the castle, aware that no help will be coming in the storm – and asks quietly, "What do you want of me?"

"A scapegoat," the Sea Witch says without animosity or apology.

Barry frowns, surprised to find a lump in his throat. "What for?" he asks, tone mercifully flat.

The Sea Witch raises both eyebrows at him, and he hates that she wears Iris' face, the haughtiness more painful for it. "Killing the King," she says, as though he is simple.

Nodding once, wearily – he knew it was coming, and still it stirs residual surprise in his gut, that any of this is happening, that things could have turned so quickly – he says firmly, "I won't do that."

"You don't have to," the Sea Witch says dismissively. "I already did." She flicks a hand at the prone King. A furry white head appears in her breast pocket, drawing a cool smile from her. "My companions found a more useful form in this realm," she adds, reaching up to stroke a thumb over the weasel's head.

Barry feels the urge to bear his teeth at the former eel almost overpower him, but his concern for the King overrides it. Only determination resides in his voice when he states, "This was not our agreement."

The Sea Witch rolls her eyes. "Our _agreement_ ," she repeats derisively. "You speak as though you had an equal say in it. You did not. You never did. I set the terms. I knew how much trust I needed to build to ensure that you would act accordingly when the time came, but I answer to no one. You gave me what I needed. Our agreement has ceased to be useful."

Pain twists Barry's heart, but he refuses to let it falter him. "Siren magic is binding," he says slowly. "No one is immune."

"I have ensured that all the strings are tied," the Sea Witch says smoothly. "Your dear occupation is now held by your dearest, and soon you will be easily dispensable without consequence. It will be as though you died all those years ago. There will be no one alive who will even remember you were ever here."

Shaking his head slowly, refusing to believe it, Barry repeats, "Siren magic is binding."

"Keep telling yourself that, kid," Snart replies, venturing back to the door and unlocking it. "Insofar, luck hasn't been on your side." Then, whistling loudly, he steps back and waits.

A tall figure appears, and enters the foyer with barely a sound. "The rumors are true," muses Hunter Zolomon, examining the King lying on the floor from a distance. "The King has fallen."

Straightening to his full height, filled with fury, Barry steps towards the man reflexively, halting in place when Hunter levels a murderous glare at him. "This must be the man who killed him," Zolomon adds with eerie certainty, drawing a truly wicked looking blade from his own belt. "A damn shame I was not sooner. Nevertheless: I shall redeem our dear King's death. I do believe we've met before," he adds, advancing towards Barry. "Indeed, I'm nearly certain I put an end to a fellow who looked just like you."

Barry retreats slowly, keeping himself between the King and the killer.

"Guess I'll just have to finish the job," Zolomon says in a growl, lunging forward.

Weaponless, Barry can only scramble for safety, abandoning the King to bolt down the nearest long hallway. " _Guards!_ " Zolomon bellows, voice reverberating easily down the corridor, making the hairs on the back of Barry's neck stand up. " _Guards! Stop that man! He murdered the King!_ "

With the howls of his hunter chasing him down into the castle, Barry runs for his life.

* * *

Leaning against the outermost wall of the castle, bundled up in his furs, Cisco whispers, "Gods be good."

"We must act," Rob says in a fervent and equally soft tone, nearly lost to the howling wind.

"How?" Hartley asks, beleaguered and nearly frozen. "How can we help anyone? We should retreat while we can. Surely we're next on the list."

"We can warn the others," Cisco says firmly. "There are hundreds of people still loyal to the King's name who will surely fight for him."

"The woman – she was no woman," Rob muses. "How can we stop her?"

"I'm not much bothered by that," Cisco admits, peering around the corner. No signs of life. Good. "I'm more concerned with getting the King to safety first. Then we can seek out justice."

"Justice," Hartley repeats.

Cisco nods. Folding his arms over his frozen chest, Hartley points out in a low drawl, "You know, your 'just King' was going to kill Garrick."

Waving a hand dismissively, Cisco replies, "Water under the bridge if we all survive this."

"If," Rob repeats, and his usual unflagging optimism has noticeably flagged.

Bracingly, Cisco says firmly, "Quickly, now – we must go."

Taking off at a careful run for the snow-drifted homes, Cisco leads the small band onward, silently wondering if it wouldn't be wiser to run as far and as fast as he can from Annapurna.

* * *

Turning over a small blue pebble in her hand, Iris lies low in the water, Siren's tail easily keeping her in place. The _White Hare,_ a small seaworthy vessel capable of handling frigid Annapurna's winter shores, bobs near her, concealing her perfectly from view.

From a distance, she hears voices. Excited, she drifts towards them, eager for word and anxious to know more about Barry's fate. He's not among the two-person party she hears, but their voices are sufficiently animated to pique her interest. No one comes to the shores at this time of year – even she avoided it in the harsh winter cold. It isn't until the strangers are nearly on top of her that she hears the gravel and gruffness of their unfamiliar voices.

" _Be done with it,"_ one growls.

" _All right, all right_ ," snaps their companion, and Iris ducks below water, eager to conceal herself from their view. In the frothing, ice-riddled current, she needn't worry; with visibility steadily declining, she is unlikely to be found. Still, she's cautious, emerging and creating the lowest profile she can. With horror, she watches one of the men loft a body over his shoulders and heave it into the water.

As one, the men disappear the way they came.

Iris, already underwater, surges towards their last position, wondering and afraid of what she will find.

Needless to say, the Duke of Chomolungma is not who she's expecting.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Notes:** Hello, my dear friends! I would have had this chapter up much sooner if I had not been plagued by migraines courtesy of a new medication, but hopefully I've seen the last of them. My goal is to update this story much more frequently! I thank you again for perservering with it, and I hope that I can reward you with good storytelling. We'll shift perspectives soon, but for now, I hope you enjoy.

* * *

Tearing through the frozen forest, Barry thinks, _I am no nearer to resolving my problems than I am to reaching the moon._

His breath comes in short, sharp pants, but he feels little fatigue, pressing onward relentlessly, putting as much distance as he can between himself and Zolomon. The obscuring snows reduce visibility, but he doesn't stop until his lungs feel ready to burst, a prolonged coughing fit finally forcing him to halt. Leaning against a tree, he becomes aware of his own shaking legs, eyes shut as he listens intently for any sign of his pursuer.

The only sound for a thousand miles is the howling wind, underscoring the immense silence beneath it. As the coughing subsides, he strips off his remaining upper furskin, exposing his torso to the searing wind, allowing its breathtaking cold to refocus him.

Exiled, he looks around at his surroundings, white nothingness as far as his eyes can see, and wonders if this is not what Eternity will look like: empty beyond imagining.

But there are trees and grasses hidden beneath the snows, and he can almost see the living forest hiding within the white walls. _This place is alive,_ he thinks, replacing the frozen furskin slowly. _I am alive. I can still change this._

Only if he finds shelter from the brutish cold, he thinks, teeth chattering. Longing for his own Siren song to keep him warm, he walks stiff-legged back the way he came, arcing in a somewhat circuitous route to avoid detection. He knows that Hunter is still in the woods, somewhere, but with the line of sight removed and all sound obscured, their chase cannot continue.

It is an interminable distance to the edge of civilization, but Barry halts when it is within his sightline, aware that he will be easy prey emerging from the woods unarmed. Even with the blizzard to disguise his movements, he cannot hope to evade detection for long – not if Hunter is watching, or any of his companions besides.

 _Another way_ , he thinks, and begins trudging uphill to get around the houses, a slow incline that steepens dramatically in places, forcing him to work around it. Time passes slowly, and quickly: within hours, darkness mantles his shoulders, providing no warmth as he circumvents the lit homes. _To be human_ , he muses longingly, imagining curling up in front of a steamy fireplace and resting for a time.

Instead, he ascends, finding ubiquitous cold until it is no longer cold. His limbs are heavier, and he knows that he must descend or die. He presses on.

He climbs, hand-over-foot, and almost loses his footing altogether when he hears a smooth, resonant voice command, "You should turn back."

Looking up, lashes heavy with snow and vision minimal in the dark, Barry squints at his companion, nothing but piercing blue eyes in the shadows.

"Turn back, human," advises the creature. It saunters forward, and Barry has the sense that it is far taller than it seems, walking at a pronounced hunch. Its feet crunch through the snow, and Barry doesn't mistake the crackle of claws snipping through ice.

"Who are you?" he asks quietly, almost reverently.

In reply, the creature advances, and Barry can see that it is bearlike yet grander in its proportions, enormous. "I am the one they tell stories about," the creature says, easing nearer. Barry can almost feel its hot breath, but he can still barely make out its features. Its claws gleam faintly in the darkness, obsidian-black against the snow. "I am the one who takes care of those who trespass."

At last, it halts, and plucks a branch from a tree, igniting it instantly.

Grasping the makeshift torch in a clawed hand, the blue bear rears up slowly, towering over him, its coat a mixture of grey and black, its great breaths misting in the air. "Satisfied?" it asks, its jaw moving strangely to accommodate the speech. Barry has the distinct impression that it could speak any language with ease. There is something otherworldly about the creature, accentuated by its sloping walk, its intent blue eyes, its paw curved delicately around the burning branch.

 _What is a god?_

 _A god is more than human. Someone we aspire to be, or simply aspire to please_.

Mesmerized, Barry cannot speak, advancing slowly across the space. The bear-god does not stop him. Instead, it sits on its haunches, still commanding more height than even the tallest man Barry has ever encountered, and watches him, unblinking.

"I have been called _Dom gyamuk_ ," the bear-god introduces, its voice almost hypnotic in its clarity. "Michê. Mirka. Bun Machi. Yeti."

 _Laugh all you please, but I swear upon my life, I_ saw _a Yeti_.

Barry can hear Ronnie say the words, but his eyes refuse to connect the creature before him with the idea of the thing. _The gods do not walk the earth anymore,_ Iris informed him, almost sadly. _If they exist, they're more reclusive now._

"This is my mountain," the bear-god adds, living proof of the impossible. "And it is I alone who permit those who climb it to reach its summit. I deny you that passage. Return to your hut, human, or perish up here."

In a voice noticeably quieter than the bear-god's, Barry says, "I'm not human."

The bear-god cocks its head at him slowly. It reminds Barry of an owl. Disarmingly so; it does not blink. "My eyes are old," the bear-god says, white eyes flashing. "But my other senses do not fail me. You will not mislead me." Demonstratively, it inhales deeply, exhaling its breath very slowly. "Walk away or perish, human."

"I have questions," Barry says, voice scourged by the cold but strong enough. "Why are you here?"

"I do not answer to you," the bear-god replies dismissively. "I am here because I am here."

"What are you?"

"I am what I am."

Daring to step closer, Barry insists, "Are you a god?"

A flicker of amusement passes across the bear-god's eyes. "Are you a Siren?"

Reeling, Barry staggers back half a pace, reclaiming his original ground. The cold nips at his face, but he doesn't turn away from the wind, fixing his gaze on the bear-god. It doesn't move. If he looks away, even slightly, it seems to vanish in the wind, invisible in the shadows. "I ascended this mountain before," he remarks, afraid that it will vanish altogether if he is not careful. "You were not there."

"I was," the bear-god replies. "But I saw no reason to interfere. I let the untroublesome pass. It is those who would die on my mountain that I dissuade. It is sacrilege for the bodies to lie here. I remove them."

"What happens, should you fail?"

The bear-god blinks once. "I have never failed."

"A – companion of mine, he said … he saw you."

"I have been seen," the bear-god allows, "but few believe the words of cold climbers after they have descended from the mountain high. Fewer still believe them enough to come looking. Those that do, do not return."

A feeling of dread builds in Barry's stomach. "Is that to be my fate, then?"

The bear-god does not reply.

With only the howling wind for company, it seems strangely quiet in the space between them, accentuated by the bear-god's enormous form, fully twice the size of any Barry remembers encountering before. "You would be revered, if you walked among the people," he observes softly.

No mortal ears could pick up the sound over the storm, but the bear-god replies, "I do not seek reverence."

"What do you seek?"

"I seek what I seek."

Turning around is the wisest move, Barry knows. He senses no malevolence in the bear-god: it does not pin him with a hunter's eye to his place, but observes him relentlessly, ensuring that its will is obeyed and he does not seek an alternative path up the mountain. Still, he cannot bring himself to leave. He senses it may be the last opportunity he ever has to speak to the old bear, and he must make it matter.

"What do you know of Sirens?" he asks, for if any creature may prove enlightening, surely it is a god.

The bear-god settles onto all fours, extinguishing the branch in the snow. In the near perfect darkness, it seems even more menacing, a hulking shadow with barely visible features. "Follow me," it commands, and turns northward, and begins to climb.

 _Go another way_ , a cautious voice insists, but Barry follows the bear-god up the slope, hand over fist, numbed fingers struggling to find a grip where the bear-god's claws click effortlessly. It is so breathtakingly cold that each inhale seems strained, each exhale forced. He tries not to think about how much farther the bear-god will take him, but as true night descends over the world, he cannot help but think he has gone too far already.

 _Dusk on the third day_ , he thinks, a distant reminder of a broken promise.

He does not transform, and he does not die. Instead, he follows the bear-god deeper into its realm, until at last they halt at the edge of a cave carved into the mountainside. Claw marks are clearly visible along the rim, deep gouges drawn by fantastically sharp claws.

"Onward," the bear-god insists, preceding Barry into the darkness.

With strength derived from curiosity, Barry follows it, gaze drifting to the walls, a faint light becoming visible as they leave the howling wind behind.

The cave is not deep. Within a few strides, the bear-god halts and turns around so it can face Barry. It seems far more menacing in the confined space than it did in the open, seated, shoulders near the ceiling. Barry stands, and still feels small and powerless before it. Taking his cue from the bear-god, he sits neatly on the cold floor, gazing up at it, waiting. "I do not answer to you," it says, "but I have a debt to your kind."

The bear-god lifts its left paw, using a single, wickedly sharp black claw to scratch the side of the cave wall. "You asked what I am," the bear-god says, patiently scraping away ice and rock from the space. "I am what I am." Its claw deepens the gouge without apparent effort. "Why am I here?" the bear-god repeats. "I am here because I am here." Then, using thumb and forefinger, it plucks a single rock from the stone wall and holds it aloft.

The pebble glows a deep, luminescent blue. In the darkness, its light fills the cave, creating strange new shadows that play over the bear-god's blue-furred face, sharpening fearsome angles, accenting a glint of wicked teeth as it speaks. "Even I am not immortal," the bear-god says, turning the stone over in its claws slowly. "In time, I will die. I am not a true god. Any more than Sirens are gods. Merfolk. Selkies." Gaze on the stone, it muses, "Some of us last longer than others, but we are all confined to this realm, and we pass from it in due time."

Flicking the stone across the space, it fixes its gaze on Barry. Leaning across the space, Barry reaches for the stone, hesitating just before contact. "A pantheon of creatures lay claim to godliness, and yet all of us are mortal in our own ways," the bear-god continues. "There are few from the old guard remaining, but we still inhabit our own spaces, fulfilling our own wishes. But there are rogues among us. Dissenters. Those who seek more than reverence."

Gaze on the stone, heart pounding, Barry closes his fingers around it. Little black claws cradle the stone; sharpened incisors press down on his lips. He opens his mouth to speak and finds no words, overcome with the familiar warmth, the familiar presence that comes with being a _Siren_.

The feeling is so heady that it _is_ almost godly: the aches vanish from his limbs, the fatigue from his bones. He shivers, but it makes the warmth more pervasive, the feeling more exhilarating. A deep hum builds in his chest, and it is restraint borne from years of silence alone that keeps him from giving it voice. He leverages himself so he can relieve the pressure from his legs, and finds a heavy Siren's tail in their place.

Lounging with a hand on the cave floor and his free hand holding onto the stone tightly, he looks at the bear-god, silent in its corner. Cocking his head thoughtfully at the creature, aware that a single word could ensnare it forever, he regards it silently.

"Your song will do nothing to me, Siren," the bear-god pronounces.

Gaze returning to the stone, Barry stares at it, overwhelmed with – frustration, exultation, depression, surprise.

 _It's real._

It's a story that burns in his bones, a mythos that predates him and intends to exceed him. Holding onto the fragile blue stone with powerful black Siren claws, Barry experiences an overwhelming urge to destroy it, an overwhelming urge to return it to the stars. Sorrow wells up in him as he crushes it between those sharp little claws, aware that its end means –

 _What, exactly?_

Aghast, he drops the stone. Instantly, the cold sinks into his bones. The aches are gone, and each breath comes more readily, but he still feels weaker in his humanness, small once more before the bear-god. In a clear voice, he says softly, "Why would you keep this?"

"It grants me life unending," the bear-god replies, reaching across the space and allowing a sharp black claw to pull the stone back towards itself. Barry notices for the first time that its paw never makes contact – only the edge of its claws. "Some might call it a philosopher's stone. These things have many names. But the truth is simple." Picking it up between two claws, the bear-god announces, "This is the reasons Sirens exist. Should it disappear…" Slowly, methodically, the bear-god begins to rub the stone between its claws, and Barry's heart pounds with fear, but he needn't worry: nothing changes.

"It laid on the ocean floor, many eons ago," the bear-god says, scratching at the cave wall. "Then it rose with the land and resided here for a time, unnoticed. I do not know how vast this period was. The mountains are older than me." With gentle claws, it presses the stone back into its little niche in the wall. Barry stares at the spot, entranced. "I came upon this cave one day and found it. I knew what it was, and I knew no fear of it. These things cannot harm gods," the bear-god adds, and something clicks in Barry's chest.

 _The Sea Witch was never afraid of me. She had no reason to be._

 _I never had any power over her._

Unperturbed by Barry's inner thoughts, the bear-god continues. "Only earthly beings succumb to this particular magic. We ethereal ones acknowledge a higher state of being as our only law. Thus." The bear-god pauses, regarding Barry with glowing white eyes, before resuming at the same steady cadence, "I will never understand the passing fancies of mortal gods who crave power. Everything here is impermanent. Even these mountains. They will crumble, and I will fall with them. And the stone will return to the sea, and perhaps another being will find it and enjoy its effects."

"It's a terrible thing," Barry says, voice soft, reverent, "to be a Siren, to ensnare living beings. To force them to obey you, even unto death."

"All living beings will die," the bear-god replies. "Myself included. To lead them to a peaceful death is kinder than many alternatives."

Shaking his head slowly, Barry repeats, "It's a terrible thing."

"If it is so terrible," the bear-god says simply, "then you should end it. Destroy the stone. Extinguish all traces of Sirens from the face of the Earth, and let the world know permanent peace."

It's a dizzying thought, almost overwhelming in its scope. _End the Sirens._

He has always known about his lineage: the Sirens Who Came Before Him, and the Sirens Who Come After Him. He admires his place among their ranks, remarkable solely for his presence in the immediate present. Soon, he will be a forgotten shadow, invisible to his kin. They will not remember his name. He will merely be part of an unbroken chain spanning years untold, a shadow in the realm.

To be the final link in that chain, to be the very last Siren That Ever Is – it is a thought too daunting to entertain. It makes him feel sick, imagining the world he could invoke, merely by one last action.

 _It would be selfish not to. The world doesn't need Sirens._

And still, he does not reach for the stone.

 _I cannot betray them._

His kind needs him to carry on their story.

Exhaling, he averts his gaze from the bear-god's, afraid that his shame will show.

 _I could end it all._

But he can't.

Without urgency, the bear-god rises, and the stone clicks innocuously as it lands in front of Barry. "Goodbye, human," the bear-god bids, and Barry looks up at it uncomprehendingly. "I must make the final ascent. Do not die on the face of this mountain." It saunters towards the mouth of the cave at Barry's back, moving with deliberate steps. Barry eases to his own feet and steps back out of its way, the cold stunning against his face outside the protection of the cave.

Still, he has to ask: "What do you mean?" Over the howling wind, his voice is barely audible.

The bear-god does not reply, letting out a low garbled sound reminiscent of a true bear. It sounds pained, but its steps are strong as it begins to ascend the near vertical stretch peeling off from the cave to the invisible summit. In moments, it is lost to the storm – and lost forever to history, another myth quietly buried in snow.

Shivering, Barry ducks back inside the cave, seeking protection. The cave feels colder without the bear-god, and only the dull reflection of blue light on the floor inspires him to step farther into it. With great care, he wraps his sleeve around his fingers and picks up the stone, depositing it in a pocket and exhaling when nothing changes.

 _I can carry this forever, and all will be well._

It is a comforting thought, and the stone seems to provide palpable warmth as he picks his way carefully back down the mountain in near perfect darkness. He finds he doesn't need to see the path to know the way; he merely trusts the yearning in the stone for the ocean, and is not disappointed.

The roar of the shore is profound, audible from a great distance, but it is only when the sea-spray is near enough to splash over him that Barry finally halts.

Looking out at the Great Deep, he scans the ink-black horizon futilely for signs of life. The entire world seems empty, this dark, this cold, yet he feels only a sense of rightness in his presence.

 _Take the stone and go home_.

He wades, almost unconsciously, into the waves, lapping at his ankles. The urge to dive under the water and retreat to his cave with its lovely blue stones is overpowering. He walks forward a few more paces, the acoustic whistle of the wind a distant thing. _Go home_ , he thinks, and pauses, knee-deep in the icy waters.

Then, slowly, he retreats, returning to the shore he yearned to be upon for years, taking a heavy seat on the rocks, surrounded by innocuous gray stones that have no bearing on his kind.

 _How innocent are you_ , he muses, the stone burning companionably in his pocket, no more remarkable than the vast sums of pebbles he has found and yet incontrovertibly fantastic.

A sound in the distance makes him stiffen, alert, and he rises and stumbles slowly across the rocky shore, venturing towards the sound.

Softly, cautiously, he calls out, "Iris?"

The name is lost to the wind, but he cannot bring himself to shout louder. It seems sacrilegious to do so, interrupting the ocean's rhythm. Indeed, he half-expects the bear-god to descend upon him and wrathfully tear him apart.

"Iris?" he repeats at the same volume, nearly stumbling over an unseen stone protruding from its kin.

"Garrick?" a voice croaks, making him tense reflexively. "What are you doing here?"

Feeling his way across the stones, he replies cautiously, "What are you doing here?"

Coughing wetly, the Duke of Chomolungma replies, "Catching cold. I take it you survived the mutiny?"

At last, Barry nearly trips over the shivering body hunkered on the rocks. Leaning down, he seizes a great handful of the man's furskin, hauling him to his feet. "Not according to your wishes, perhaps," he says, blindly guiding them towards the shelf separating the mainland from the sea. "Yes. Alive and well."

"Wonderful." Shaking, Eddie continues in a ravaged voice, "Where are you taking us?"

Barry doesn't hesitate: "To a friend's." Then: "I hope."

. o .

"Where is Rob?" are the first words out of David Singh's mouth.

"On his way," Barry lies, supporting the Duke under an arm. "Might we come inside?" he asks, voice only slightly strained.

Eyeing them warily, David steps back, shutting the door smartly behind them. "What is going on?" he asks.

Depositing Eddie on a chair in front of the fire, Barry exhales. "More than can be easily explained. Can he stay here?"

"Where are you going?" David demands.

"Elsewhere," Barry evades, already nearing the door. "Can he?"

David looks at the man on his couch, then Barry, then pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have a strange feeling it would be terrible luck to let a Duke die on my doorstep, so – for now."

Clasping the man's hands, overcome with gratitude, Barry says fiercely, "Thank you." Then, releasing him, he adds, "I'll be back as soon as I can. The King needs me."

Arching his eyebrows, David repeats, "The _King?_ What sort of trouble—"

But Barry has already slipped out the door, Baloo's cheerful woof overriding David's next words.


End file.
